


The Best Good Thing

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Caretaking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Language, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phase Four (Gorillaz), Phase One (Gorillaz), Phase Three (Gorillaz), Phase Two (Gorillaz), Siblings, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: She has known 2-D for most of her life: as a clumsy caretaker, as a rather obnoxious bandmate and older brother, as a captive, and as an adult sibling seemingly out of step with the world around him. Although she has lived a wilder life than he, she has always been able to handle herself, and he... Well... She can look out for him. She's the best good thing for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some tags might be added as the story progresses, but most warnings will likely appear in the chapter notes. Given the nature of the characters, smoking, drinking, and strong language are to be expected. Some chapters will include situations of physical and emotional abuse, both explicit and implied.

She was the best good thing for him. Even Russel said so and Russel was very smart.

It was difficult, arriving in a new place, not knowing the language or where she had come from, only aware that the people before her would be her new friends, her new family. They took to her quickly enough, and she to them, although she knew, in the very deepest part of her heart, that they were not really the best parents for a child. She had no experience to draw upon, no memories to match them to, but knew it all the same. Call it intuition, or instinct, or a sensitivity to the smell of stale cigarette smoke and decaying fast food.

In spite of this certainty, she had no fear of them. She knew, on some level, that she need not fear anyone, even though she did not know why. She did not need to fear the weird, drunk, cussing man called Murdoc, whose intense vulgarity made her laugh in the way only children of an age to appreciate belching and flatulence as the epitome of humour ever could. She did not need to fear the big, broad Russel, who spoke softly, suggested that a little cleaning up of Murdoc’s act would not be remiss, and who seemed to understand her – more or less – in spite of her lack of English skills, provided she spoke slowly and in simple phrases.

She especially did not need to fear 2-D.

2-D was the tallest, skinniest, strangest, sweetest, gentlest, most vulnerable and fragile-looking creature she had ever seen… and as thick as pudding. When Russel had assigned him to find her a room while he went out to buy food that was, in his words, "not likely to kill her if she gets within three feet of it”, 2-D had offered her a reassuring smile and then looked around himself with increasing distress until Murdoc told him not to be a knob, there was a hall of empty rooms they hadn’t filled up with equipment yet, and a fu.. frig… blo… cot in storage. They could get her a proper bed and a guitar rack once she had a place to sleep.

Then, thinking she wasn’t looking, he had thrown a trainer at 2-D’s head, causing her to giggle behind her hand.

2-D had smiled at her as they went into the hallway, but his expression was pained. She immediately regretted her laugher, although not enough to apologize, partly because she was uncertain how she should go about it when she did not think he understood Japanese, and partly because it had been _funny_ and he seemed to shrug it off a little more with every step down the hall.

He held her hand as they walked so she would not get lost, but his long legs made it difficult to keep up with him – even though he slouched along, unhurried – and it took him a few moments to realize she was near to sprinting before he bent and scooped her up in his arms, so much stronger than he looked, and carried her the rest of the way.

He seemed to do it with ease, but that little pained expression crossed his face again before he smiled at her.

“You’re Noodle, yeah?” he said, his voice higher and reedier than she might have expected. “Ever’one calls me 2-D.”

“Toojie? Toochi?” she repeated, trying to mimic the mealy, slurry sound of his words.

He grinned brightly at that, charmed by her childish lilt, and did not correct her.

“A’s right, pun’kin,” he said and it was not until she heard both Russel and Murdoc say his name repeatedly that she understood she had mispronounced it. She practised and practised to get it right, managing within only a few short days.

“2-D!” she called to him one morning as he went to the fridge, holding out her cup and asking for some juice.

He looked momentarily startled before smiling and congratulating her on being such a fast learner. He filled her glass and even managed to find her a cookie as a reward, although his dark, muddy eyes did not spark the way they had the first time she had spoken with him. She puzzled over this while she ate her cookie slowly and, being a fast learner, found a solution before the last of the crumbs could be picked up and licked from her finger.

“Arigato, Toochi-niichan,” she said, plunking her glass down on the table.

Although he might have understood only a single word of her declaration, it was enough. The flickering spark returned to 2-D’s eyes, brightening the entirety of his expression.

“Dun let no one hold you back, luv,” he told her on her way out. “Not even me.”

No fear of that, she thought. She had puzzled out the difference between public and personal and knew the value of rarity.

In time she learned more English phrases, mainly with the help of Russel, who listened and was patient and educated enough to have heard some Japanese. What he did not know, he was not afraid to research. She learned more about Gorillaz and working with the band from Murdoc, who was very interested in hearing her guitar skills and even more interested in their making him money. Given the time and attention they spent on her, she supposed it would be unfair and uncouth for her to admit to them that 2-D remained, by some small margin, her favourite, although she suspected that Russel was aware and possibly understood the reasons why better than she did herself.

“She’s the best good thing for him,” she heard Russel’s voice drift in from the hall one day while she lay curled in the crook of 2-D’s arm, sharing a nap where he lay sprawled on his bed in a warm afternoon sunbeam. Russel spoke quietly, but his voice carried, a low-rolling sound that filled the studio. Murdoc’s voice, while louder, remained indistinct and inarticulate, a needless, noisy backdrop.

“Well, think of it,” Russel said, his voice enveloping her, filling her ears as she drifted in semi-sleep, unable to drop off for listening, unable to wake in the lull of 2-D’s soft, shallow breathing. “He’s all aches and pains. She’s small and soft and _warm_. Body heat’s good for that shit. Makes you relax. Unwind. Better’n pills anyway. And she’s just a kid, so she’s still got some puppy fat. Like a pillow with a built-in heater.”

Murdoc’s voice interjected with something indistinct that ended clearly with lewd laughter.

“‘Cause I’d crush his skinny ass, Einstein,” Russel answered, unbothered and unruffled. “He’s like twigs wrapped in denim. She’s just a little thing and won’t hurt ‘im none. He’s even carried her around. And it gives him something to look after. Lord knows he can’t tie his own damned shoes without falling on his face, but he hasn’t fucked hers up yet. She gives him a reason to focus. Focus is good.”

Focus is good, she thought, drifting in and out of consciousness. The best good thing.

She understood more English than she spoke, but she didn’t quite understand her bandmates. Not yet. She knew that pain sometimes flittered over 2-D’s face, but she did not understand why. She knew his eyes were strange and dark, blackish-red all the way through, but she did not understand why. She knew that sometimes he was wild and open and cheerful and bright, and then suddenly dull and shaking and fearful, but she did not understand why. She knew he sometimes woke sobbing from sleep and sometimes moaned and twitched, rubbing his arms, his neck, his head, and sometimes Russel brought him something and he lay quietly a while, often sleeping, like today, and it was nice to lie beside him in the crook of his arm, even when he smelled of sweat, although he usually smelled of soap and sweets, but she did not understand why.

She did not understand any of these things, only knew that they were true, but now there was one thing she did understand.

She was the best good thing for him. She was small enough to be held and soft enough not to hurt him and warm enough to make aches dull so he could sleep.

She was the best good thing and she could be more. He was a bundle of sticks who could not tie his shoes. He was her tallest, skinniest, sweetest, strangest, imminently breakable big brother. She was small and light and fast and strong, and she could look out for him.

She was the best good thing.


	2. Chapter 2

“Fish?”

“Wassat, luv?”

“Fish!” she said, pushing the plate in front of 2-D, who slumped at the table looking faintly distracted and holding the handle of a mug that had long since gone cold.

“Noodle cooked,” Russel explained as 2-D eyed the plate of fish, rice, and slightly mushy greens. “She’s not too bad. Not fancy, but not bad. I supervised. Ain’t that right, baby girl?”

“Cooked fish,” she agreed. “Russel helped.”

2-D smiled at her, a wan and watery thing, and picked up his fork to prod at the food. He looked interested, but hesitant, and she shifted nervously, wondering what he would make of it.

She did not remember much – certainly nothing of her life before coming to Kong Studios – but the idea of fish was burned into her. She felt that fish was something she had eaten a lot of. Nice, grilled, flaky fish. Fish with rice and some kind of greens.

She had had to fry it here, of course. Even with Russel’s help, she had been unable to find a way to grill the fish properly and frying seemed the safest bet. It was a little overcooked, a bit too crispy around the edges, but it was perfectly good fish. Russel had found her a rice cooker, so the rice was perfect, and if the vegetables were a little soft, well… it was really a miracle that she managed to get vegetables into the studio at all.

She had wanted to learn to make fish and give some to 2-D because fish was healthy and good for the brain and 2-D was skinny and “dumb as a fucking stump”. So Murdoc said. But mostly he was skinny and twiggy and it seemed the thing to do. Russel had warned her that 2-D was often sick and took many medicines that sometimes made his “tummy feel funny” and he might not be hungry when she cooked, but she was fine with that. She knew 2-D could eat a lot when he _was_ hungry and that he would try it if she made it, even if it was vegetables. She would simply try until she made fish when he was hungry and would eat it.

She thought she might have lucked out on the first try, in spite of 2-D’s initial misgivings. After a cautious prod or two, he cut into the fish and took a bite, following it up with a forkful of rice. He dodged around the greens a while, but eventually ate some of them too, making a circuit of the plate as she watched him intently.

“I’s good, pun’kin,” he told her, and the smile that had faded returned, a little brighter, but still weary, not quite reaching his eyes. He ruffled her hair and went back to his plate as she bowed and thanked him for the compliment, letting Russel serve her and himself. They called out to Murdoc, but he only swore at them, and Russel assured her in low tones that Murdoc would come and eat some later, even the greens, because he would tell Murdoc himself that Noodle had cooked everything and Murdoc wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would he?

She giggled conspiratorially at the implied threat, knowing that Murdoc probably _would_ try some, even the greens, if he knew she had cooked them because her bandmates were kind to her that way.

Russel told her the fish was good and went for seconds even as she finished her own. 2-D did not ask for more, which surprised her a little as he seemed to live on the extremes of eating or not eating, but he finished what was on his plate and that was good.

They chatted for a while, or, rather, Russel tried to teach her a few more English phrases while 2-D watched them through heavy-lidded eyes, and then 2-D excused himself to go lie down, saying he felt a little bit “woozy”.

“Woozy… woozy…” she said a few times after he had left, liking the sound of the word. “What is ‘woozy’?”

Russel, who had watched 2-D’s departure with veiled suspicion, turned back to her and smiled.

“Ah, you know… like kinda dizzy,” he said, miming disorientation. “Kinda sleepy.” He folded his hands and feigned sleep on a pillow.

“Dizzy-sleepy?” she said, mimicking Russel’s disorientation, but with half-closed eyes.

“Yeah, you got it,” Russel said, but his smiled faded. “Maybe a little sick, too.”

“Sick?” she said as Russel started to clear the table. Part of her thought she should help, but she was suddenly worried about 2-D. She hoped the fish hadn’t made him sick. That was not what she wanted!

“A _little_ sick,” Russel emphasized. Noticing her anxious expression, he added, “You can go check on him if you want. Just don’t bother him if he’s asleep, aight?”

“Okay,” she said, sliding off her chair and padding off in the direction of 2-D’s room.

2-D was not asleep. 2-D was very noisily vomiting in his bathroom.

His back was to the door, which had not quite latched, so she was able to nudge it open a little without his noticing. He had fallen to his knees beside the toilet, clutching at his belly with one hand, the other serving as a headrest as he leaned against the bowl between bouts. He made an odd noise that was not quite a sob and that filled the absence of retching with the sound of soft despair.

It frightened her terribly. Russel had said 2-D’s medicine made his tummy feel funny, but whenever her tummy felt funny, it was nothing but a flutter that made eating unappealing. There was nothing funny about 2-D hunched over the toilet.

Nervously, she crept into the bathroom and put her hands on 2-D’s back, running them over his shoulders. She felt him stiffen and freeze.

“Toochi?” she said softly, trying to coax him with her special nickname as he curled in on himself further. Her eyes felt sharp and painful. “Toochi-niichan okay?”

“I’s not your fault pun’kin,” he murmured. “I’s not you, okay? You did good. You did. I’m just not so good m’self today.”

“Funny tummy?” she pressed as he drew himself up a little and spat a mouthful of sour saliva into the toilet.

2-D laughed, a broken, rattling sound.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’s my tummy, luv. Got it in one, you did.”

He tried to get up off his knees as she scampered out of the way, but he swayed and fell back into a sitting position with his back against the wall. He panted and clutched at his belly, his face contorted with pain. He drew his knees up, pushing back against the wall, uncomfortable, stressed, and unable to relax. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, but she was small enough to wriggle beneath one of them and press up against his side.

She was warm, Russel had said. She made aches feel better.

She tossed aside the radio helmet she favoured and buried her face in the crook of 2-D’s neck. She pushed her small body against the length of his torso and wrapped her arm around his chest. Through his ribs, she felt his heart flutter, racing like a frightened rabbit’s.

He made a little noise of bewilderment and a half-hearted attempt to push her away, but it ended with his head leaning against her own, because she was small and soft and warm.

She cooed at him and tried to tell him it was all right. That he need not eat her fish when he was sick, even if it was her fish. That she was sorry if she made him think otherwise. That there was nothing shameful in being sick. That she would take care of him, because she was small and soft and easy to hold and because she was warm and made aches go away. She hummed a few bars of a song she could not really remember, but associated with being scared although what might have scared her, she could not imagine. Nothing was as scary as 2-D hunched over the toilet and curled up in pain.

She tried to tell him all these things, but her English gave out early on and she said it all in Japanese, which he did not understand, and yet did, in a way, perhaps by her tone. He cuddled her closer when she said she would take care of him, that she was warm and made aches dull.

She was still murmuring when Russel came to find them, towering over them both, filling the bathroom door.

“The fuck, D,” he said.

“Sorry,” 2-D murmured over her head. “I din’t want her to think it was bad, Russ.”

“So you scared her half to death instead?” Russel huffed. “You get in line behind the cabbages when they handed out brains?”

“Din’t wanna upset her,” 2-D said, stroking her hair. “She shun’ta seen. I think she thinks she poisoned me. What’s she saying?”

“How the hell should I know? I’m not Japanese,” Russel said. “She speaks slowly enough, I can Google some shit, but she’s yammerin’ a mile a minute. I don’t think she thinks it’s her fault though. I told her you get sick sometimes.”

“A’s good,” 2-D murmured and nuzzled her hair, lips brushing the top of her head.

“Better if you weren’t scaring the shit outta her,” Russel chastised. “You’re the size of a stripped pipe cleaner and just puked up half your body weight. She probably thinks you’re dying. S’okay, baby girl,” he said, his voice softening as he crouched down and ran his fingers through her hair opposite 2-D. “Big brother’s okay.”

“Brother?” 2-D said, relaxing just a little and allowing her to relax in turn.

“Yeah, whatever else she’s on about, that’s the one thing I understand. You really need to spend more time listening to her.”

“Tried, Russ. I can’t remember it all.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s a problem for you,” Russel said, defeated. “Try to remember one thing at least. Hey, Noodle,” he said, turning to her before 2-D could respond. He jerked a thumb in 2-D’s direction. “Who’s this dumbass?”

“2-D!” she said. And then, more quietly, clinging to 2-D’s shirt. “Toochi- _nii_ chan.”

“There ya go,” Russel said, punching 2-D lightly on the arm, making him wince. “Niichan. She says that, she’s calling you ‘big brother’. All extra cozy and family-like.”

He sighed and squatted back on his heels.

“What’s got you this time, Dents? Your stomach’s not so good, I got that. You need somethin’ for your head? Or is it nerves?”

She tightened her hold on 2-D as he made a long, drawn-out noise of uncertainty and murmured something indistinct in low, shamed tones that forced Russel to lean forward to hear what he said. He finished the litany with “Get ’em m’self, you know”, to which Russel only shook his head.

“I’m not letting you find out where I stashed ‘em this time,” he said. “There’s a kid in the building and you can’t regulate yourself for shit. She can weigh you down a minute. I’ll be right back.”

“Need four.”

“The bottle says one and you’re gonna get two. Maybe something light on the side to keep you mellow,” Russel said. “Don’t freak ‘er out more than you already have.”

“Russ…” 2-D whined, but quieted when she squeezed him and hummed her song. He called her a good girl and apologized over and over for scaring her until Russel returned with a glass of water and a few pills, which he showed her before dropping them into 2-D’s hand.

“You remember those, baby girl, and don’t you give anything like them to 2-D, no matter how much he asks. He wants something, you come find me. You find anything like that lying out, you bring them to me. You got that?”

She did not understand every word Russel said, but the meaning was clear.

“Niichan needs help, tell Russel-san,” she repeated obediently as 2-D popped the pills into his mouth and held his hand out for the glass of water.

“Yeah, 2-D gets himself in trouble, you let your uncle Russ know,” Russel said. “Don’t tell Murdoc. He’s a dick.”

“She calls you uncle, then?” 2-D said, handing back the empty glass.

“No, she calls me Russel. I call me uncle ‘cause you sure as hell ain’t any sorta parental guidance,” Russel told him. “I’m gonna finish up the kitchen. You all right on your own?”

“Yeah. Just need a sec,” 2-D told him.

“Fine. I don’t think she’s gonna leave ya, so don’t fuck off or anything when those things kick in. If you need to blow some steam, go sing in the studio with her. Let her dance around. Do you both some good.”

2-D nodded and stroked her hair as Russel left. She remained huddled against 2-D’s side and they sat together for an unknown length of time, until he started to shift restlessly. She noticed an added warmth to his body, a slight dampness to his shirt, and the nearly imperceptible smell of sweat as though 2-D were in the throes of some kind of fever. She sat up to look at him, finding him faintly flushed with a brightness to his eyes that was brittle and wild.

“Better now, luv,” he told her. “Wanna sing with me like Russ said? I can show you the melodica.”

That cheered her up and she scrambled to her feet, pulling on 2-D’s arm until he stood up with her. She had noted, alongside Russel’s remarks, that 2-D loved music very, very much and was very, very good with any instrument that had keys. She had been especially interested in the melodica, which she had never seen before, and he had promised to teach her how to use it. Although she doubted that a full lesson was intended, she would be happy to have a demonstration, and it would chase away her misgivings after watching 2-D writhing on the floor.

They holed themselves up in a practise room, where 2-D gave her basic instructions on how the instrument was used, where and how to blow into it, and how to comfortably hold it. She tested it herself, mimicking the finger patterns he taught her, not quite managing to breathe correctly, or perhaps not blowing out the right amount of air, although she felt her lungs must be strong enough. 2-D smiled and laughed at her efforts, a sound of delight rather than ridicule. He paid her absolute attention, and yet… he seemed distant and unfocused. 

In the end, she pressed the instrument into his hands with instructions to “Show me! Show me!” and plunked herself down on a beanbag chair to watch him warm up with simple melodies that quickly shifted into something stranger and more complex. He reached out and flipped on a rhythm machine, giving himself a backdrop, and played into it. The music was discordant at first, experimental, slowly resolving itself into a song she had never heard before. She exclaimed her delight and grabbed one of the practise guitars, stumbling through chords until she found a satisfactory accompaniment.

They played that way for some time, jamming and experimenting, until she grew tired and her fingers grew sore and she put the guitar aside to simply sit and watch 2-D in action, his energy not yet depleted, making a mockery of his earlier lassitude. While she had been playing, he had taken breaks to sing, his voice strong and powerful and nothing like the weedy, reedy sound of his speaking voice. Now that she had stopped, he used only the melodica, its music haunting and twisting and wild. He danced as he played, never running out of breath. She could not tell if the drugs he had taken fuelled his energy or merely released it, but it was beautiful as it burned.

 _He_ was beautiful as it burned.

Murdoc called him the band’s “pretty boy”. She thought 2-D’s looks were more unique than pretty, but he was beautiful now, caught up in movement and music and chords. He was alight and alive, a bonfire of flash and sound, and she knew, although she did not understand, that, like a bonfire, he would one day burn out.

And something in that was beautiful, too.

She cheered when he paused to catch his breath, sweat dripping from his brow and matting his hair. She clapped as he grinned and made to take a bow, only to be hit on the side of the head by a paperback. It struck hard enough to make him stagger, and she giggled in spite of herself, feeling bad when he winced and cringed away from the object.

“Oi! Faceache! Take a fuckin’ shower before you stink the place up!” Murdoc shouted from the hallway, as though his own bathing habits were not highly questionable.

“We’re just practising,” 2-D objected, instinctively raising an arm to shield his face when Murdoc stepped into the room.

Murdoc looked on the verge of retaliation, either verbally or physically, but seeing her cross-legged on the beanbag chair gave him pause.

“Whatever,” he said, taking a cigarette out and lighting it. “Russ says food will be here soon. Go wash yourself or the whole place’ll smell like desperation. Run Noodle a bath, too, so your stink don’t stick to her either.”

Once Murdoc had gone, 2-D flipped the switch on the rhythm machine and held his hand out to her, his joyful energy transformed into an exhausted, shuddering tremble.

“C’mon, now,” he said, smiling at her, although his voice was low and weary. “You wanna nice bath, yeah?”

“Bubbles?” she inquired. She had learned the word for bubbles early on.

“Yeah, bubbles too,” he said, and held to his word, running her a nice warm bath, not too hot, thick with bubbles.

He left her there to bathe herself, door closed but unlocked, for she had never had cause to fear her bandmates. She played until the bubbles had almost vanished and she heard Russel calling her down for dinner. She called back that she was coming, pulled the plug on the bath, and dressed in the fresh clothing 2-D had left out before wandering off to shower. She ran down to his bedroom to make sure he had heard the call to food and stopped short in the doorway, startled by a flash of white, which proved to be a towel 2-D had wrapped around his hips. He wore this and nothing else as he sprawled face-down on his bed, the shower having done what an afternoon of music could not and sucked the last of his strength from him.

“There you are,” Russel murmured behind her when she tiptoed into 2-D’s room to see if he was all right. Russel looked from her to 2-D and then back again. “Leave him be, now, baby girl. He’s all right. He needs to sleep and you need to eat. You’re a growing girl.”

“Yes!” she told him cheerfully, grabbing his hand and letting him lead her downstairs. 2-D was out cold and alarmingly quiet, but sleep was fine and she knew he must be tired. She worried a little that he would not be eating, but this, too, was not entirely unusual, and so she let it go.

Russel and Murdoc spent the rest of the evening with her, teaching her alternatively English through patient repetition and finances through the fine art of poker. Murdoc cashed her in with some money she had earned doing chores for Russel – much to the latter’s discontent – and she walked away five pounds richer.

So that was all right.


	3. Chapter 3

She learned a little more about caring for 2-D quite by accident one weekend when Russel, who had spent months preparing for a trip to New York to pay tribute to friends he had lost in the past, was stymied the day before departure by Murdoc’s sudden announcement that he was leaving for the weekend on what he swore was a band-related affair and did not in any way involve prostitutes, hard liquor, or illegal activities. He then promptly vanished, leaving Russel to quietly contemplate his place in the world and, more precisely, his place should he be convicted of murder.

“You can go,” she told him when he debated cancelling his ticket. “2-D is here.”

“D don’t have the good sense God gave paint,” Russel said, and then relented. “Never mind. That was harsh. But it’s hard to get emergency services up here and he can’t see shit to drive if something happens.”

“I can drive,” she said, and she could. Murdoc had taught her in an old junker car. After an hour or so of learning the controls while sitting on his knee, he had tied blocks to her shoes so she could reach the pedals and let her race around the parking lot, cheering her on from the back seat, until she hit a lamp post. They were never allowed at that mall again, but at least she had a grasp of how to handle a vehicle.

“True, but illegal,” Russel said, “although I guess, if there’s blood, no one’s gonna be askin’ to see your license.”

She wondered what the concern was. The likelihood of 2-D being injured through accident or design changed in direct proportion to his proximity to Murdoc, and Murdoc would be gone for the weekend. It did not even occur to her that Russel feared _she_ might get hurt until he asked her what she would do if she got sick.

“2-D will give me medicine,” she replied, having considered the conundrum.

“God help us all,” Russel sighed, explaining that 2-D had a somewhat “inflated perception” of the need for medication and rather “biased opinion” of how much was required for effectiveness.

“He’s careful with you though,” Russel reluctantly admitted. “You might be all right for a few days, if we have a little chat first.”

She did not need to ask what the chat would be about. She had watched her bandmates long enough to know 2-D was an addict and that Russel tried to keep medication out of his reach, doling it out according to need with a sensitivity to 2-D’s levels of tolerance. She knew that 2-D nevertheless found ways to get his hands on various prescriptions if he could, back-alley remedies if he could not, and fell back to drinking or smoking pot if neither option was available or if Russel found his stash and locked it away. He avoided doing these things in front of her as much as possible, aware of the issue and partly ashamed, but there was no mistaking the weird patterns of lassitude and frenetic energy that encompassed his waking hours, punctuated by the bouts of illness that accompanied a crash. They happened regardless of who was regulating his medication, but were longer lasting and more intense whenever he managed to circumnavigate the bulwark of Russel’s checks and balances.

Although the swinging mood sometimes worried her, she did not pay much attention to this aspect of 2-D’s behaviour. As far as she was concerned, it was simply part of who he was. He had been in many accidents, she had learned, one of which had made his hair blue and two of which had made his eyes bleed black. He had hurt his head many times, which made others shake their own and utter sounds of pity, but people forgot that accidents hurt elsewhere, too, affecting his neck, his back, and his joints all over. The medicines he took made him tired, or sick, or anxious, or wild, and, to counter them, he took other medicines with their own side effects. It sounded so wearying that she could hardly blame him for wanting to take enough of them all to make everything run together into a dull background noise. For this reason, she did not always tattle on him when she knew he had found pills that were not in Russel’s care. She saved her snitching for those moments when she feared he had taken things that should not go together.

By the time Russel sat her down with 2-D, she had already personally determined what she would and would not let 2-D get away with, regardless of Russel’s opinion.

It was for naught as Russel dropped a plastic pill case in front of them both. It was divided into days – one for each day of the week – and each day was divided into two compartments – one for morning and one for night.

“Listen up, D,” he said, speaking clearly and firmly.

2-D, jittery and anxious, clutched his hands together, his fingers playing over his knuckles as though they might produce a tune. She threaded her arm through his, to show she was on his side and he flashed her a brief smile, although it did not still his nervous twitching.

“You ’n’ Noodle are on your own this weekend,” Russel said. “As the only legal adult, you gotta keep your head twisted at least part-way on, aight?” He waited for 2-D to nod before continuing. “In this box I sorted out any kinda pill you might need into the times of day you might need them for a period of four days. Four. Tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, at which point, God willing, either Murdoc or I will be back. You _do not_ need to take them all at once. In fact, unless you’re actually feeling something that _needs_ a pill to put it right, you do not need them at all. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it, Russ.”

“Let me hear you say it, then.”

“Dun’ need ‘em all at once,” 2-D repeated obediently.

“That’s right. Noodle does not need you doped out of your head, leaving her on her own,” Russel told him. “Not to mention, if you take ‘em all, you won’t have any later ‘cause there’s only so many. You got that?”

“What if i’s bad, Russ?”

“What I got in here is already more than the recommended dose, and if it doesn’t do the whole job, it will do enough.”

“But what if i’s bad? Like real bad?”

Russel tried to stare 2-D down, but it was almost impossible to outlast 2-D’s muddy, blank-eyed gaze. Eventually, he sighed.

“Most of your ‘real bad’ is side effects and withdrawal, D,” he said. “And those are bad, I’ll admit, but you got a kid to watch. The thought of you suffering through a little bit of that just to be alert enough to keep her safe does not bother me at all. But I know the headaches are killer. If I may draw your attention to this one compartment, that is not a part of a daily regimen…”

He pointed to the compartment in the box separated by two empty slots.

“These are extra pills for migraines and that slosh-over of anxiety you got. Do _not_ take both kinds at the same time. Headache’s priority, you can have the others if you need them and didn’t take a migraine pill. You got that?”

“Yeah, dun’ take ‘em at the same time,” 2-D said, twisting his fingers together.

“Not at the same time and not at all if you don’t absolutely need ‘em,” Russel emphasized. “Tell Noodle if you take anything for your head ‘cause I don’t want her thinking you’re dead when they knock you out. And if it’s so bad that you take extra, make double-sure you let her know ‘cause she won’t be able to move you, even if the bloody building catches fire. Speaking of which, if the building _does_ catch fire, make sure she’s out and away before you lose your shit.”

“Not that stupid,” 2-D muttered. “Can get a kid out’a the house if i’s on fire…”

“It’s not about stupid, it’s about being too fucked up to tell there _is_ a fire.”

“Gets hot, dunnit?”

She laughed at that because it was true, but Russel only looked exasperated.

“Don’t make me cancel this ticket at the last minute, D. The charge ain’t worth it,” he said. “Now, if it wasn’t clear enough the last few times, you got a kid to watch out for.”

“I know, Russ,” 2-D mumbled. “I’m not incompetent.”

“No, you’re not,” Russel said. “ _When_ you’re not fucked up out of your mind.” His voice softened a little as he added, “I know there’s a lot of stuff you don’t want to face every day on your own, but you gotta do it for her. I know you can ‘cause you care about her and I seen you do it. But there’s a difference between hangin’ around here, watching you spend a clear-headed afternoon with her, and being too far away to step in if things go to shit. You’re gonna be on your own for this. And you’re gonna have a kid depending on you to do it. So I need to know, right here and right now: You okay with that? No jokes. No snide remarks. Are. You. Okay with that? If you don’t think you can do it, if it’s too hard, that’s fine. But I need to know it before I leave you alone with her all weekend.”

2-D looked pained, even angry, a thing she had never seen before.

“I’s a’right. I’ll watch’er, Russ,” he said coldly, flatly. “I’m not gonna let some poor kid starve or burn up or get her legs cut off just ‘cause I’m not as smart as you. My family raised me better’n that. You watch the li’l ones ‘cause they get inta ever’thing and inta ever’where, fallin’ outa trees an’ the like, and bustin’emselves up, and getting stuck on fuckin’ pills so they dunno what’s up and what’s down and you can’t do nothing ‘cept tell ’em to watch the li’l ones _so they dun end up like you_.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy, and she shrank down into her seat a little, not quite understanding everything 2-D had said. His words were slurry and slush even to those with a better grasp of English, but the acid that dripped from them did not escape her.

Russel appeared to understand him, because his expression grew tighter with every word, but he said nothing in response. When the silence had gone on too long, 2-D offered a broad, gap-toothed grin, almost evil in its intensity.

“And Muds’d have a fuckin’ field day if I got her killed, wouldn’t he?”

The silence carried on a while longer, and then 2-D added, “I’m not stupid, Russ. I’ll watch‘er.”

“Just wanted to hear it, D,” Russel said, tentatively squeezing 2-D’s wrist. “Think you can manage some laundry while we’re gone? Noodle’s runnin’ low on clean clothes.”

“Yeah, I gotch’er laundry.”

“Then we’re cool,” Russel said, and let them go.

Chores were hit and miss around the studio. No one seemed to care much about the state of anything, leaving clutter around the common areas and only cleaning their own rooms as they saw fit. Instruments and recording equipment were checked and repaired regularly out of necessity, but even these would have fallen by the wayside without a schedule. However, it occasionally came to pass that some things, such as spoiled food, needed to be taken care of, in which case, the band member that began the task usually carried it out for the whole of the studio.

Until she had come to live with them, laundry had been one of those chores that that tended to be ignored with offending pieces being washed in a sink as needed by the owner. With her arrival had come the need to keep her in clean drawers, and if some laundry was being done, it stood to reason that all laundry might as well be done. Laundry was a task that 2-D could manage in small batches without much difficulty – once the machine’s settings had been clearly marked with coloured nail polish – and so it often fell to him to gather up any clothing that was lying around and give it a wash every one to two weeks, depending on how much clean underwear she had left.

It was a process that could run for several hours or several days, depending on how often it was forgotten, so they set to work as soon as Russel left on Friday, gathering loose articles of clothing and separating them into relevant piles: all underwear, washed and dried at the highest possible temperature with as much soap as allowed by the manufacturer; all jeans and other articles of denim, washed cold and dried at low temperatures or simply slung over railings around the studio; all towels and wash cloths; a pile of whites and lights, mostly her own; and a pile or two of darks, mostly everyone else’s, especially Murdoc’s, when his clothing could be found at all.

Occasionally 2-D ran a load of bedding based on the number of dirty sheets and blankets that were piled up at the bottom of the stairwell. When he did so, he usually asked that she not help him, cryptically commenting on their stickiness, but she had only dropped a lolly in bed on a single occasion that she could recall, so she did not think she was at fault.

While the first load ran, 2-D let her make fish, which was her favourite, and the first of the foods she wanted to try cooking over the weekend. Russel had been kind enough to drive them to the store for supplies – anything that she wanted, within reason – and she intended to take full advantage. She fried her fish while the rice cooked and steamed some broccoli, which was a new thing she had learned and kept her greens from getting soggy.

2-D hovered as he watched her, but stayed out of her way unless his assistance was requested, complimenting her when he thought she did something clever, although to her it was the most mundane of tasks. It reminded her of Russel, who had taken her aside before leaving and suggested that, if she wanted to cook, she should make 2-D sit at the table with the fire extinguisher.

“He’s as likely to spray it in his eye as put a fire out,” Russel had said, “but at least you’ll know where it is.”

The memory made her smile because the image of 2-D blasting fire foam into his own face was funny, but it also made her sad because it was not funny at all and 2-D was being really nice about letting her take command, even if he insisted on doing any cutting that needed the sharp knives and double-checking all the dials once she had turned off the stove. He ate everything she gave him, thanked her, complimented her cooking, and did not get sick at all. He helped her clean up, piggy-backed her to the damp and dingy laundry room to change the load, and then piggy backed her to the front room so they could play video games all evening, pausing only to switch the laundry once more.

2-D was rather good at games, even though he had to sit close to the screen. She knew he had a pair of glasses somewhere that did little to help the overall quality of his vision, but sharpened outlines somewhat. However, when she suggested he fetch them, he shook his head and told her that they sometimes caused his headaches, a risk he was not willing to take. He lost a few more times than she would have expected because of it, unless he was letting her win. He did not let on either way, congratulating her cheerfully each time she beat him. When she yawned sleepily and could no longer hold her controller, 2-D gently took it away from her, turned off the game, and carried her up to bed.

They finished up the night with two loads of laundry done and no pills taken since Russel’s departure – of which she was aware – and when 2-D came in to check on her after she had changed into pyjamas, she hugged him tightly. He returned the gesture awkwardly and tucked her in, patting her hair and half-closing her door on the way out, leaving a comforting strip of light from the hallway spilling across her floor.

They had American-style pancakes in the morning, with lemon and sugar and jam. 2-D fished around in Russel’s pill case, debating internally, finally pulling two tablets from its depths and washing them down with water. He sat at the table for half an hour, clasping and unclasping his hands, waiting anxiously until whatever was going to work worked, and then helped her clear away the breakfast things. They started up the laundry again and made cookies, which set off the smoke detector when 2-D misjudged the markings on the oven dial and accidentally burned the first batch. The rest were all right, however, and they ate some as they picked up the kitchen and finished the laundry, and then had some more after lunch. In the afternoon, they played and danced and sang and jammed, jotting down ideas and lyrics, sampling bits of interesting sounds to weave into the mix.

She enjoyed these sessions with 2-D the most. He was almost different when making music, and if he was not as energetic and frenetic as he was when taking medicines that staved off pain and exhaustion, he was still brightly alive, a being of elemental sound. He stopped often to rest, encouraging her to perform solos for him, and performed for her in turn when his energy came back. In the end they put their instruments down, pulled up some old tracks, and simply danced.

They tried different steps, conservative and wild, and tried to synch their movements, although she found it nearly impossible to keep up with 2-D and his long legs. They allowed him to spin, sway, and twist while remaining rooted to the spot, and permitted a wider range of exaggerated motions. The closest she could come was to turn with a hop-hop-hop and she laughed as he purposely over-extended his reach, far past anything she could ever manage, simply to tease her. He supplemented this pantomime with silly faces until she giggled so hard that tears streamed down her face, and then he tickled her lightly, scooped her up, and swung her around.

For a moment, it felt like flying.

Like any perfect thing, the moment did not last long. After the second circuit, 2-D plunked her back down, still giggling, and grinned at her. Then he tried to pull himself back upright and staggered.

“Toochi?” she said, her giggles ceasing as he grabbed a microphone stand to steady himself, his smile wan and faded.

“I’s a'right, pun’kin,” he said. “Just a bit dizzy. My brains always spin a bit more. I’s a higher altitude.”

He tapped his head and pointed to the ceiling and she laughed again because it was funny, but not for very long because he looked ill.

“Be okay if I sit down,” he told her, perhaps noting her concern. “I’s gettin’ late, yeah? You makin’ dinner or you wanna pizza?”

“Cook,” she told him, and he followed her to the kitchen, where he collapsed into a chair near the stove so he could supervise, kicked his legs up onto another, and lit a joint while she went about her preparations.

She decided to make stir fry. Although the vegetables were pre-cut, it took longer than the fish or pancakes as she had to cook some of the harder ones separately a while before dumping them all together in the pan. By the time she was ready to serve her creation, 2-D was finishing his second joint, looking worn and sleepy.

He seemed more so after he finished eating, done in by a drug-driven appetite that made his belly bulge a little where his T-shirt clung to him. Of course, he was so skinny that a large glass of water also caused his belly to bulge outward, but she found it amusing none the less and giggled as she prodded his tummy through his shirt.

“You laughin’ at me, pun’kin?” he said, dozy, but in good humour.

She wanted to tell him no, that she worried when he did not eat, that she was happy when he ate her food, that it scared her when he was sick, so it was good when he was not, but she could not do so in words he would understand. Instead, she said yes and pulled a face at him that made him laugh and pat her head, broad palms and long fingers nearly crowning her completely. Then he ruffled her hair, picked up the pill case, and frowned. He stared at it for several moments before flicking open Saturday’s compartment and making his selection – two different pills that she did not recognize.

Not that she recognized most of them, only those for his really bad headaches, which were _so_ bad that Russel had instructed her on what was needed to quell them in case she was closer than he when they struck. She knew the pills were important because Russel had not only taken the time to show them to her, but written down his instructions in English and painstakingly researched Japanese. How much was okay, how much was assuredly _not_ okay, and how much pushed that line so hard that she would have to use her – “God forgive me, you’re just a kid” – judgment as to how bad 2-D’s situation really was. She also knew that a smaller amount taken early enough could sometimes cut 2-D’s headaches off before they became unbearable, but it left him in a trance-like state that frightened her far worse than having him simply pass out.

These were not those pills, however, and he did not seem to be on the verge of a headache, so she simply fetched him a glass of water, for which he thanked her.

Then he pushed the pill case in her direction.

“Put ’em in a drawer or somethin’, luv,” he said, looking as though he had swallowed something bitter even though he had not yet taken his medication. “I dun wanna look at ’em.”

He swallowed the pills, chasing them with water, and she tucked the pill case in the “junk drawer” that was mostly dead batteries, broken pieces of things, and little foil squares that said “condom” and that Russel said were none of her concern.

“Hey, Noodle,” 2-D said after a time, his voice a little bit slurrier than usual. “You mind if we have a quiet night? Watch movies or somethin’? Most’a mine are horror an the like, and I dun think Muds’d do ya—”

“Zombies!” she cried excitedly, knowing they were 2-D’s favourite and finding them mostly hilarious herself. It was almost like no one in the whole world knew how to defend themselves against a brainless horde.

“A’right, zombies then,” 2-D agreed. He grinned again although there was a strained, washed out quality to it. “Popcorn?”

“Popcorn!”

“A’right. You do popcorn and I’ll go find the movies. Use the microwave, yeah?”

“Okay,” she said and went looking for the packets of microwave popcorn. She managed to find two, cook them, pour them into bowls, and then add extra melted Real Butter – or at least Real Margarine – with some salt. Into one bowl she also poured a packet of cheese powder Murdoc had stolen for her from a snack factory he had visited on the occasion of “nevermind, I’ll tell you when you’re older”.

It was, he assured her, a good story.

They passed up the cinema in favour of the television with a sofa that could be pulled out into a bed. 2-D had set it up, tossing on heaps of pillows and some blankets. He suggested she put on some pyjamas, which she did, and they both flopped down on the sofa-bed with a bowl of popcorn and a drink – beer for him and soda for her.

They watched three movies: one good and two not so much. For the most part, she loved the not so good movies the best. They were the funniest and the most ridiculous, although they could be upsetting in strange ways. They relied heavily on formulas for everything from music, to plot, to characters and it seemed to her that, should the need arise to sacrifice one of of the main cast, it was always the quirkiest character fed to the beast of the week.

The ditz. The stoner. The comically myopic.

It made her feel uncomfortable. Not scared, but… uncomfortable. She huddled a little closer to 2-D, his hair and clothing sweetish with pot, and he stroked her hair and told her it was okay, that “i’s not real”.

She said nothing to that. She did not have the words.

When the movies were over, he turned off the television and told her it was time for bed.

“Sorry, luv. I can’t carry you tonight. I can’t… I… I… I just can’t tonight,” he said.

She understood, but he sounded so morose that she patted his hand and offered reassurance in a soft, sing-songy voice.

“It’s okay,” she warbled. “It’s okay, niichan.”

That seemed to make things worse somehow, although 2-D smiled all the same and followed her to her room. He tucked her in and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Can sing a bit if you like,” he said.

She eagerly told him she did like and snuggled down into her blankets as he sang her old punk songs in a hushed and dreamy voice until her eyes closed of their own volition and sleep drowned them out.

By Sunday morning, 2-D was in terrible pain.

Not in his head, she thought, or at least not badly, because he was alert enough, but he moved oddly, as if he wanted to curl in on himself, and his fingers did not seem to work properly. It took him several tries to grasp the handle of the junk drawer and pull out the pill case. He flipped the top of Sunday’s compartment and nearly spilled its contents. His hands were shaking.

She watched him toss a few pills out onto the counter, carefully put some back, reconsider and exchange them, intently focused on the task. He looked prepared to continue the debate for some time, so she asked if she could help him and he promptly made his decision, pushing a few pills aside, scooping the rest into the case, and then into the drawer, which he slammed more firmly than necessary.

“S’right,” he said. “Dun worry.” And he swallowed the pills with a handful of water before taking out the kettle for tea.

They ate cereal because 2-D was not very hungry, although he was hungry enough to eat, so that was all right, and then he said he thought he might tinker in the workshop, if that was okay with her, and she could come if she wanted, or play games, or watch the telly. She wanted to come and watch, she said, and he let her bring her guitar and the melodica to play.

The workshop was little more than a junk room, “where old equipment went to die”, but 2-D had cleared a corner, put in a work table and several shelves, equipped it with a vice and a few other tools, and there he brought dead things back to life. He liked to tinker with old equipment – keyboards especially, but sometimes other things as well – repairing them if they were needed and… _changing_ them if they were not.

He took bits of one thing and another and put them all together in strange configurations, testing their sound and playability. She thought they often sounded awful, at least at first, but it was rare that 2-D did not look thrilled by the result and immediately try to compose something with it, even just a few bars, to be sampled in and mixed with the sounds of his other creations, or their regular instruments, or a foley track of household noises.

And it worked. It always worked. If not immediately, then later on. There was always a song, a base line, a percussion beat, that needed something extra, something different, something strange.

2-D took shattered and broken things – trash that had been tossed aside without a second thought – and made music with them. He saw something special in things that were useless on their own and found for them a mix where they would be complete.

It amazed her.

Sometimes he put on music as he worked. Sometimes he sang. When she was with him, they would sometimes jam with one of his newer creations to test it. This time he asked her to play for a while and switched to one of the other options when she got tired. They paused for a lunch of sandwiches and 2-D agonizingly selected more pills from the case before returning to the workshop. She spent some time playing video games on a hand-held device, pausing to help when her tiny fingers proved more useful than 2-D’s trembling hands, and finally putting it aside when 2-D’s tinkering slid further and further into smoking – be it pot or cigarettes – and singing along quietly to the background music.

He rubbed often at his eyes and sometimes tugged at his ears, the first warnings signs of a possible headache, the kind that crept up slowly, eating him a bit at a time. The bad kind.

“Want pizza?” she said. She had intended to cook, but thought a little activity might clear 2-D’s head. Pizza would make him move. If nothing else, he would have to get up to phone for delivery and find money to pay the driver.

He acquiesced and rose slowly and carefully to his feet. He called from the kitchen and brushed her hands away from the junk drawer when she tried to take out his pills to stave off what was coming, closing it gently once he was certain her hands were clear.

“Not the bad ones, pun’kin. I’m still good,” he said, although he did not sound good at all. As if trying to convince himself, he added, “Russ’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll be good until tomorrow.”

“Zombies?” she said instead, hoping to divert his attention, knowing he would not want to do very much, and thinking more movies might cheer him.

He did smile at the request and they set themselves up as before, pushing aside the popcorn bowls to make room for pizza boxes, tossing up together on the bed when the food arrived.

2-D did not eat much, in spite of liking pizza, in spite of the joints he had smoked, but he did eat, and that was good. He drank tea, cup after cup, rather than alcohol and that, too, was good, even though he rubbed at his eyes, at his ears, at the nape of his neck, at his collarbones.

She watched him more than the movies, switching her focus when she felt he was on to her, feeling fearful for him the more he pawed at his neck, at his head. When he ceased watching the movie, eyes shut, jaw tight and mouth twisted, his hands drifting from rubbing his forehead to covering his eyes and back again, she jumped up and turned off the television, shut all the lights, and ensured that doors and curtains were closed, although she could not prevent a trickle of light from entering.

“Sorry, luv,” 2-D murmured, his voice shuddering. “I’m sorry. I… I… I can’t do it. I can’t…”

He bent over his knees, almost folded in half, clutching at his head and uttering soft, pained whimpers. It frightened her a little to realize he was crying.

“Lissen, pun’kin. Lissen…” he said, braving the outside world enough to peer from behind one hand and make sure she was nearby. “I… I… I need you t’get Russ’s box. Dun bring it. I… I… Jus’ dun bring it, luv. Take… take… the bad pills. Y’know?”

She nodded. She knew.

“Smart girl. You take those ones an’… an’…”

2-D buried his face in his hands a moment, and then pulled away one hand and cracked an eye to calculate on his fingers: two up, then three, then two, then…

“T-two,” he said, biting his lip, his face screwed up with pain and determination. “Count t-two for me an’ bring ‘em, a’right? You do that for me?”

“Okay,” she whispered, a woefully inadequate response, and scampered away to do as he asked, counting out three of the pills from their compartment. He had asked for two, but she knew he wanted three, wanted them all, really, but _needed_ three. Needed them as much as air because Russel’s talk had scared him and he had waited too long. Needed more than one kind, probably, but he had waited too long and could not take them together and the headache pills came first. Always.

She brought them back with a glass of water and he wept even more to see them, although whether he did so out of gratitude or terror, knowing she had brought more than he had asked for and he would not have the willpower to turn one away, she could not tell.

“Sorry,” he whispered over and over as he counted the pills with shaking hands in light too dim to see. “You’re a good girl, you are. You’re good girl an’ you needa lissen, okay?”

2-D’s tone made her feel shivery, but she nodded. “Okay.”

“These’ll make me sleepy. Real sleepy. Real bad like,” 2-D said. “If something happens… Prob’ly not but if it does… you go, a’right? Dun worry about me. I won’t hear you. Just go.”

“It’s okay,” she said, realizing just how worried he was. “I won’t burn.”

“If _anything_ happens,” 2-D emphasized. “ _Anything_. You go find help. I won’t… I won’t be able to help you. Promise.”

“It’s okay, Toochi-niichan,” she told him to calm him down.

It did not work.

“Promise!” he snapped at her, and the look of agony on his face momentarily stole her breath away.

“I… I promise,” she stammered, eyes prickling with tears, and faint relief washed over him.

“You’re a good girl,” he repeated and started swallowing the pills one by one. “Better’n me. Dun ever… Dun ever be like me.”

When he had finished them, he put the glass on a side table and sprawled out on the sofa bed, one arm flung over his eyes.

She waited a little while to make sure she would not be unwelcome, and then crawled up beside him, curling into the crook of his arm, letting her body heat soak into him. She whispered softly, so very softly, that it was all right, that it could not be helped, that she knew he tried his best, but he was sick, and that was all right. He was her big brother, 2-D. She whispered it all in Japanese, and, though he could not understand her, she hoped he would hear her meaning in the tone of her voice.

She whispered until she knew he was asleep, and then she slept as well.

Nothing happened that night. Nothing happened the next morning. 2-D did not wake. Not wanting to exacerbate his concerns by turning on the stove, she made herself a bowl of cereal and ate it sitting beside him, watching the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

By the time Russel walked in around lunch, she had moved on to a sandwich. Russel looked over the state of things: the studio marginally cleaner than when he had left, the pill box surprisingly untouched, and herself clean and dressed. He stood over 2-D as she hovered nearby eating bologna with mayonnaise. 2-D had not moved.

“Fuck, D. You didn’t need to run yourself ragged,” Russel muttered under his breath. He sighed and leaned down to shake 2-D, pale-faced and bruisey-eyed, into some semblance of consciousness.

2-D groaned deeply as sleep was slowly stripped away from him, cracked his eyes open briefly, and then closed them again.

“‘ello, Russ,” he murmured. “I need the toilet.”

“You need a filter,” Russel told him.

2-D did not respond for several seconds, dozing and delirious, and then he opened his eyes long enough to take in the sight of her eating her sandwich beside the sofa.

“I couldn’t take care’a her, Russ,” 2-D said sadly, closing his eyes again.

“She’s clean, fed, and breathing. You did fine,” Russel replied, gingerly patting 2-D’s shoulder. “You just need to learn how to do it without puttin’ yourself in the ground. Now haul your ass outta bed before I have to explain to Noodle how a grown man managed to piss himself. And change your clothes or something. You look like you been wearing those all weekend.” His tone softened as he added, “I’ll leave something in your room to take the edge off. Your body must be screaming by now.”

2-D murmured something indistinct and groaned again as he tried to tumble himself upright. Russel helped him up and braced him until he was steady. 2-D gave her a shaky smile and a tremulous pat on the head, and then staggered out of the room.

“The chassis’s shit with an engine to match,” Russ grumbled and she picked up the popcorn bowls and pizza boxes for him while he stripped the bed and folded it back into the sofa. He tasked her with putting the pillows away while he tossed the blankets at the bottom of the stairs and went to pick out some medication to “make the dumbass semi-functional”.

She put some of the pillows away, but she knew the rest were 2-D’s and returned them to his room. It was so quiet that she thought he must have gone to shower, but he was half-undressed and passed out on his bed. A slew of pills lay scattered on the floor beside an empty bottle as though he had dropped them in his hurry, or, perhaps, his hands had been shaking too badly to hold them. Obviously, he had hidden some from Russel, but managed to keep away from them all weekend, afraid and keenly aware of his responsibility to her.

She tiptoed in to check on him. His breathing was deep and regular, so she quickly picked up the scattered pills and tucked the bottle in a drawer before Russel could return. Then she pulled a light blanket over 2-D – because he was her big brother and she loved him dearly – and tiptoed back out.

She would need to make sure he took at least some of his medicine regularly the next time they stayed alone together, she decided. Just enough to keep the pain from settling in. Just enough so that he would not have to make the agonizing decision of which pain was greatest when they all piled up in a heap. And she would try her best to make sure there _was_ a next time, because she had never seen 2-D so naturally bright and happy for such a long period of time as she had when they were together. They would dance, they would sing, and he would show her another instrument or one of his strange creations made of strings and keys.

2-D needed the whole of the band to be complete, but he needed some time apart as well. Away from Murdoc’s misdirected bile and Russel’s pity, he would be wonder, and music, and fire.

Unfortunately, she had few opportunities to spend a whole day alone with 2-D, much less an entire weekend. After their first album, interviews, and tours, they went their separate ways and she, wanting to know more about her past, returned to Japan.

At least for a time.


	4. Chapter 4

“2-D!” she shouted when the singer arrived at Kong Studios. It had been a long hiatus, but the band was finally back together.

She ran to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck. She could hardly not. She had even hugged Murdoc the moment he arrived despite the fact that he smelled like an open sewer and she was apt to contract a social disease simply being in his vicinity.

2-D was so tall that she had to hop up to hug him even though he bent down a little to reach her. To her great surprise, he caught her around the waist and hauled her up to his full height, swinging her around.

“Hey!” she protested, clinging tightly until he came to a stop. “Put me down! I am _much_ too big for that now! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“I got something for that, luv,” he told her, letting her slide down through his arms until her feet hit the floor.

“I know, but you need to be conscious to sing for me.”

2-D laughed at that, but otherwise ignored her mild rebuke. He complimented her on her English skills, which she admitted were always there and something she remembered rather than learned. She promised to tell him all about it once everyone was gathered together.

Although he had probably lived closest to the studio during their hiatus, 2-D was the last to arrive on site, which he dreamily chalked up to a bad sense of direction and a need to walk a lot of the way since he could not drive himself or find anyone whose schedule was immediately clear enough for his needs. She found it impossible to tell whether he was serious or not and decided it did not matter. He was here and safe, for all intents and purposes, and willing to sing and play keyboards for her. That was all that mattered.

She walked with him to his room so he could drop off his bag, telling him what little she knew of the others, and assuring him that they would all catch up at dinner. Russel, she said, was having a nap, and she was not sure what Murdoc was doing. She personally thought he might be resting as well, but cheekily told 2-D that he had gone into hiding with a bottle of banana rum and a stack of magazines for what she imagined was self-entertainment.

“You oughtn’t know stuff like that,” 2-D said without a hint of shock, the airy quality of his voice making her wonder if he even really understood what she had said.

“I am fifteen now… almost,” she reminded him. “I know a lot of things.”

That seemed to surprise him far more than her suggestion that Murdoc was likely engaged in self-pleasure, as though his brain had been unable to process the fact that she was older until her age was stated. He looked her over again, finally registering that he was seeing a taller and more mature her than the her that had left for Japan.

“You _have_ grown up,” he said, his voice tinged with wonder and a little sadness.

“Grown up, but not outgrown,” she said, bumping up against him. “You are still my Toochi-niichan.”

This made 2-D smile as she hoped it would and she asked him if he would like to rest, but he refused, saying he would rather sit and talk with her. He would use the bathroom and wash up a little, and then meet her downstairs.

She left him to his own devices and went to find some drinks – a soda for her and a beer for him, a kind she hoped he still liked as there was little else in the way of alcohol at present. She could not buy it herself and the little that was available had been purchased by Murdoc, who might happily drive her around to buy booze, but still refused to get more than he could carry in one trip of any brand not preferred by himself. She had let this slide and cheerfully carried his bottles of liquor – one of which actually _was_ banana rum – in exchange for his toting a case of beer, secure in the knowledge that she could wheedle Russel into taking her out once he had arrived. She merely wanted something on hand for entertaining that was neither soda nor recently touched by undead invaders.

2-D took a little longer than expected to join her and, when he did, his eyes were well on their way to becoming glassy and distant. It sadden her a little. She knew, of course, that there was no real chance of his shaking his addictions. He had far too many physical problems to ever do without some sort of medication and tended to be haphazard when it came to self-regulation. Even so, she suddenly felt keenly aware of it in a way she had not when she was younger. Perhaps she had not been aware of the symptoms then. Or perhaps she had known the symptoms, but not fully understood them.

She remembered a child-like wish to look out for him, and renewed it, although she secretly hoped, with faint selfishness and guilt, that he would not need too much looking out for.

“Can you drink this?” she asked 2-D, raising the beer can. “With your medication, I mean.”

She thought she might have to elaborate further when he tilted his head and stared blankly at her, but then he smiled almost dreamily.

“ _I_ can,” he said, and she popped the can open without further question. 2-D was an expert on few things, but they included the knowledge of what would and would not kill him if taken together, regardless of what was written on the prescription.

They sat and chatted a while, stiff and formal at first – it felt odd to be able to converse in English after so much time apart – but the atmosphere mellowed quickly, the discussion becoming more animated. She had forgotten how much fun 2-D was to talk to and how excited he could get about the things he loved. Unlike Murdoc, who seldom complimented without criticism – if he complimented at all – or Russel, who expressed his love through vast stores of knowledge, 2-D was almost childlike in his devotions, which was to say that he shared them unreservedly and without shame, his delight joyous and infectious.

2-D talked about what he had been up to during the band’s hiatus, only a little about operating rides at his family’s fun fair, but at length of what movies he had watched in that time, what kind of music he had listened to and played, and all manner of small, nearly inconsequential things that were given priority status in his mind. A cockiness settled about him when he spoke that she could not remember hearing before, particularly when he told her how happy he was that she had laid out the concept for a new album and wanted him to sing for her.

“Fuckin’ Hell, keep it in your pants,” Murdoc growled, drifting into the room during 2-D’s enthusiastic thank you and cuffing him lightly on the ear. “Keep talking like you’re something special and you might start to believe it.”

“I have a good voice,” 2-D said defensively, but with no small hint of pride. “People like it. I’s really the band’s success, I think.”

“If you got paid to think you’d realize we could replace you with some autotune,” Murdoc said, rummaging through the cupboards and emerging with a newly purchased bottle of whiskey and a crystal glass, which he plunked down on the table.

“Not with _your_ voice,” 2-D muttered. “Your voice is shi—“

2-D’s snippish reply was cut short with an audible clack as Murdoc clutched the underside of his jaw and pushed it upward, holding it shut.

“It’s just a tease, love,” he said and his words dripped poisoned honey. “No need to get personal about it. Autotune is shite. Wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Of course Noodle’d want you on the album. You did good the first time. Mind you, no one’d know that if I hadn’t brought you on from the start, but they’ve heard you now and I guess you could say you’ve got a certain something, isn’t that right, Noodle?”

She could not immediately respond, horrified by the greased slide from outright insult to vague compliment to credit taken for the source of said compliment. It was not unfamiliar to her, but she almost felt she was hearing it for the first time, as she was, she supposed, now that she was older.

“2-D has a very nice singing voice,” she finally said, not wanting to draw the argument out any longer. “There are some collaborators that I would like to work with as well, but I will certainly need his voice and his keyboard skills.”

“There, you see?” Murdoc said, releasing 2-D’s jaw and patting him on the cheek. He cracked open the bottle and poured a double measure of whiskey into the glass. “Noodle needs you, mate.”

It was almost painful to see the burst of happiness on 2-D’s face as he looked to Murdoc with admiration and then to herself with shining pride and gratitude. The shift had happened entirely too quickly for him. It had happened almost too quickly for her. And yet, for all her stunned horror at Murdoc’s rough treatment of 2-D, the whole scene felt normal, woven into her good memories of working with them in the past.

She was saved from needing to comment by Russel’s arrival and she invited him to join them, offering a drink. He opted to join 2-D in a beer, which she served, and then they all sat down and shared details of their respective lives over the past few years, pausing only long enough to allow her to rescue the delivery person from zombies. She had ordered Chinese from a new place in town and they were not yet accustomed to the dangers of Kong Studios.

She had certainly made it worth their while, however, saving up and ordering a wide variety of dishes, so that all tastes would be satisfied. Over fried rice and shrimp, sweet and sour tofu, and spicy, crispy beef she listened to Murdoc’s inflated tales of woe – brought on mostly by himself – to Russel’s descriptions of the Grim Reaper and the loss of Del, for whom she offered words of mourning and a prayer, and to a truncated version of 2-D’s time at the fair grounds, downplayed so he would neither despoil Russel’s tale nor incur further wrath from Murdoc.

When they had finished, she told her own story, of how she had returned to Japan and regained her memories, discovered that she was the sole survivor of a super soldier program, trained to fight and able to communicate in many languages, and how she had decided that she preferred music and returned to Kong Studios, finding it overrun, and clearing it out. She had laid out the concept for her album during the downtime, writing a large portion of the lyrics before calling them back together. Although she was proud of her efforts, she wanted their input as well, to give the sound of the music the full Gorillaz touch.

They listened, rapt, until she had finished, and then Murdoc grinned.

“I knew you had it in ya, scrappy kid that you were,” he said. “I wouldn’t have figured you for an outright soldier, but I’m not surprised. You’re a tough one. Take after me.”

“I’m pretty sure she could kick your ass,” Russel said. “Actually, I’d have been sure of that before learning she was trained to do it.” He turned to beam at her. “I’m just glad you feel drawn to music instead of war. It’s good to be able to fight when you need to, but music is what people remember, what they feel, and you’ve got a killer sound.”

Their pride in her felt full and genuine and she smiled back at them. Only 2-D looked troubled.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why?” she asked him, somewhat startled. Nothing in her past had been his fault. If anything, he had helped to build the memories that called her back to Kong.

“I’s just… I’m happy you’re back too,” 2-D said, “an’ that you dun have memory problems anymore, but I‘m sorry you had to learn about it all at once. Just… ever’thing all at once. Mussa been scary.”

She put a piece of sweet and sour tofu in her mouth to give herself time to think, its sticky, syrupy texture turning to ash on her tongue.

It _had_ been scary. It had been _terrifying_ , wanting lunch and getting a brain full of memories filled with hours of training and intense education supplemented with strange mental uplinks to help her learn and memorize. The increasing restlessness and final panic as child after child went into the medical offices and did not return. She had tried to quiet them all with singing, a little song that had been sung to her when she was smaller and still wanted comfort. Singing through the terror and the tears and the final bright, bright light…

The knowledge that she was a made thing. Easily created. Easily disposed of. That fate had sent her to Kong Studios instead was a minor miracle.

Of course it had been scary. Of course! Of course! But you didn’t _say_ it! You didn’t! If you did, then it wandered around your head, infecting your other thoughts, creating rough edges to tear at your insides, ripping you apart. Instead, you soldiered on. That was what she had been created for. A made thing to soldier on. You took the fear and you soldiered on. You just didn’t _say_ it!

But 2-D always said the things you didn’t say.

“It was kind of scary,” she admitted, swallowing the dusty, bitter mouthful, “but it was already done, so I focused only on the music. I knew I wanted to see everyone again, so I worked toward that instead of being scared. I’m happy you all came back to me!”

“Stupid arse,” Murdoc said, slapping 2-D on the back of the head. “She’s already come through it all. You should be proud and happy for her instead of dredging up the shite parts.”

“No!” she exclaimed, interrupting the exchange before it could escalate. “It was very kind of him to be worried for me, but there is no reason to worry. I am safe, I am with you, and I am happy. And soon, Murdoc, I will need to talk to you about the layout of the album. I have a good idea of what I would like, but you are very experienced in these things. I would value your opinions.”

“Of course you would,” Murdoc said, his attention easily diverted by flattery. “Not that I don’t have full confidence in your artistic vision, but a second pair of eyes can’t hurt. Hell, it might even benefit from giving Russ a look-see. Not 2-D so much. He hasn’t even got eyes…”

2-D said nothing in response, so the needling was dropped as soon as it started. In fact, 2-D hardly seemed to notice. He cast her a sad, fretful glance and looked down at his plate, though he ate with only one hand. With the other – which, from across the table, would appear to be resting in his lap – he gently nudged her thigh until she took it in her own, and then he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. It was a brief gesture, easily disguised, and it both calmed her and bruised her heart.

She focused only on food and music for the rest of the evening, until the delivery was eaten or packed away and the containers cleaned up. She insisted on having the dishes washed as well, which was met with protests, but respected because it was she who asked. It turned into a rowdy group affair and, she felt, the only reason they finished the evening with dishes in the cupboard instead of shattered on the floor was due to divine intervention.

At some point, after a few more drinks, they ended up in one of the old practise rooms, jamming and experimenting. She shared some of her lyrics and the direction in which she hoped to take them, which prompted test sessions with different styles of music at different tempos. Russel improvised percussion with empty bottles, tins, and boxes, while Murdoc wove in a baseline, and 2-D futzed with an old keyboard that was slightly flat, but which he managed to coax into a semblance of obedience.

For a while, it was like old times.

She did not even notice how late it was getting until Russel nudged her and she lifted her chin from where it had dropped down on her chest.

“Time for bed, baby girl,” he said. “It’s three in the mornin’ and we’re all burnt out.”

She nodded her understanding, too fuzzy-headed to speak, and clambered to her feet. She felt gratified that she was not the only one to nod off in the middle of their session when she spotted 2-D dozing against the wall. Her heart clenched for a moment when Murdoc stepped over to him, but Murdoc only nudged him with the toe of his boot.

“Go to bed, Sleeping Beauty,” Murdoc ordered when 2-D came around, and then held out his hand. 2-D clasped it gratefully and used it to brace himself as he hauled himself to his feet, overbalancing and slumping against Murdoc, who grunted in annoyance and overblown disgust.

“You’re a right fuckin’ wreck, you know that?” Murdoc told him, nudging 2-D back upright. Then he sighed and looped 2-D’s arm around his shoulders. “C’mon then, you bloody scarecrow. We’re off to see the wizard.”

She smiled as 2-D murmured something indistinct, but amiable. It pleased her to see them getting along, although she imagined it would not last.

“You want a ride?” Russel asked her, jerking a thumb at his back. She thought of declining, but her lips felt too numb with exhaustion to form the words. “It ain’t half a thought, baby girl. You’re still a tiny thing to me.”

In the end she gave in and let Russel piggy-back her to her room.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she told him as he dropped her off.

“Yeah, well… We’ll see how long the good feelings last,” he told her, but not without hope. “Have yourself a good night, Noodle.”

She barely remembered getting changed and climbing into bed. All she knew before she drifted off to sleep was, despite the time she had already spent at the studio, ridding it of zombies and other hellish pests, she was finally home.


	5. Chapter 5

The easy comfort of the band’s first evening back at Kong Studios was harder to catch as the days went by. It was there, certainly, especially when they were playing music, but so many little things had changed that she found herself continually stunned and left speechless before the behaviour of her bandmates.

She was not blind to the fact that much of her surprise stemmed from nostalgia clashing with her age and the knowledge and understanding of subtleties that would have slipped by her when she was much younger. Never mind the fact that her brain was now crammed with all the information that a government might deem important for a killing machine to have, not including her musical skills, which were a kind of bonus. Even so, there were obvious changes in the others that continually struck her as odd or disconcerting, and she often needed to pause and analyze her feelings on the matter.

Russel had always been a bit grumpy and morose, but seemed so much more so since his return. It no doubt had much to do with the loss of Del, to whom he had credited most of his talent, although she heard no change in his abilites. She understood his sense of loss a little, but not fully. Gorillaz was the only group with which she had shared a close bond and this was nothing compared to a sharing of souls. Until she had returned to Japan, she had not even had a history that she could remember, and so, nothing to mourn. She could only imagine how Russel felt and allow him some space when he was feeling particularly moody and unable to cope with too much band activity at once. She tried to make herself available to him for chatting or to confide in, but, although he did share a few of his memories and a little of his grief, he was reluctant to share too many of his troubles with a teenaged girl. Not, she felt, because he distrusted her or thought her too immature, but because he was the type to frown at adults who burdened the young with their sorrows.

Very little had actually changed about Murdoc, which should have been comforting, but actually left her with mixed feelings. She respected his abilities and his drive – or at least his ability to instill the drive he lacked in others – and had fond memories of his rather… unorthodox care of her as a child, but now she could sense his manipulations, particularly in his treatment of 2-D, and they made her somewhat uncomfortable. She remembered laughing when she was younger at the physical abuses he inflicted, the almost slap-stick comedy of it, but none of it seemed funny now. If anything, it seemed needless and petty, coming forward any time there was a chance his own talents would be overshadowed… or 2-D was simply getting attention that he felt should be his own. She suspected he might also feel a shred of guilt for his involvement in 2-D’s numerous accidents, and guilt was something he would not tolerate, so he tried to drown it out with similar actions instead of addressing it, compounding his troubles rather than assuaging them.

She suspected this, but remained uncertain. She remained uncertain because, sometimes, she felt she could really and truly understand his need to simply slap 2-D and be done with it.

2-D, whom she remembered as tall and gangly and dopey and sweet, remained at least three of these things and the fourth only if she caught him at the right moment. Since she had last seen him, he had acquired a complicated interest in flick knives brought on, as she understood it, by the use of small pocket knives in his tinkering with broken equipment and escalating from there. She thought it harmless at first – despite its questionable legality – as he merely seemed fascinated by their mechanisms and workings, but he played with them an awful lot and occasionally cut chips out of the furniture when he was lost in thought. Given that his thoughts often meandered through a pharmaceutical haze, he was usually lost in them, and she nervously anticipated the day when he would finally carve a notch into his own leg on accident.

It was not only the knife play, but the smugness of 2-D’s expression as he went about it. As if he were secure in some secret knowledge of his superiority that none of the other band members could ever understand. It clashed with her memories of 2-D as an often bewildered, but always attentive, older brother. Furthermore, he carried the attitude badly, as though he had borrowed it from someplace else, affected it in spite of its poor fit, and then forgotten it did not belong to him. Any disruption would bring back the kindness and courtesy she remembered, but only until he fixed his mask back in place, and if it were not for the fact that the disruptions mostly came in the form of Murdoc physically or verbally attacking him, she might have encouraged such things more fully.

Even worse than the attitude was the partying.

It was not that she would deny any of her bandmates a night out, or question the idea that parties attended largely by members of the music industry could get wildly out of hand. In fact, she was quite used to Murdoc vanishing at random and re-appearing smelling like sex on a bar room floor. It seemed the thing to do. Russel had often stayed home with her when she was younger, and even he still managed to go out fairly regularly, although he seldom came home drunk or high. She was certainly not unaccustomed to 2-D going out, but the differences in his behaviour between now and the time when she was young were the most noticeable and the most disconcerting. Where he would have once come home half out of his senses – no surprise considering he was half out of his senses most of the time – he now came home in much the same condition as Murdoc.

This was fine, as far as Murdoc went, because when Murdoc partied like he was Murdoc, he was still able to function the next day. Often in bad humour and with an impressive array of death threats, but also with a fair amount of competence once some hair of the dog and a pair of sunglasses were administered.

When 2-D partied like he was Murdoc, it shattered him. And if he carried a wider range of medicinal options for smoothing out life’s bumps and bruises than did Murdoc, well… they did not leave much of him behind to work with. Instruments were out, as they required dexterity, and vocals were only in if he could remember the lyrics.

And there were the girls.

“Are those e-mails gettin’ you down?” Russel said when she sighed about the situation to him in the kitchen one day.

She had not seen any e-mails herself, not being one to snoop in other people’s personal business, but Murdoc had commented on them loudly enough to ensure that both she and Russel knew what 2-D was about. Further, that 2-D was a “fuckin’ git” who should “learn to use a condom” or at least “learn to use a contract” so that “mad bints” would not try to take advantage of him for being a singer, possibly in the possession of money.

“It’s not like they can’t recognize you a mile off,” Murdoc had said, “you’re six-two with blue hair and no eyeballs. Any bird on the pull can make you and get some money in. And get the tests done, you knob. You got your hair knocked blue in an accident. What colour was it before?”

“Brown,” 2-D had replied.

“Right. So. Anyone saying you owe on a shock of blue is spillin’ dross.”

And so on and so forth.

“It seems irresponsible,” she told Russel.

Russel eyed her sceptically.

“And D’s always struck you as the responsible type?” he said.

“It seems… inconsiderate,” she corrected. “Somehow.”

“I guess your memories are a little bit rosy, young as you were,” Russel said, and then reconsidered. “As you still are. He wasn’t a virgin before you got here and he sure as Hell wasn’t chaste once you were. Get him wired enough and it shouldn’t be surprising that he can fuck like a bunny. ‘Scuse the language, if you will.”

“No,” she told him, unbothered by mere swear words in a studio dominated by Murdoc’s unholy majesty. “It would be _better_ if 2-D fucked like a bunny. While dominant rabbits often have multiple partners, it is thought that rabbits of lower status pair bond. At least for the season.”

Russel laughed at that.

“Bad analogy, baby girl. You think you’re comparing Murdoc and 2-D, but I’d say you’re the dominant rabbit in this hutch. Not even Murdoc will say boo to you if you insist on something. And that will hold true whether you believe it or not,” he added when she eyed him incredulously. “But you aren’t half wrong either. You want to hear my take on it?”

She nodded, feeling slightly dirty asking for such details, but desperate to understand the actions of her bandmates a little better.

“All right,” Russel said. “I’d normally think you’re still too young to worry about this, but you gotta live _and_ work with it, so you deserve to know. Here’s what I think. I think you’re on to something with your idea of pair bonding. I think that 2-D would like – Hell, would do better with – a long-term girlfriend. Nothing permanent, really. Even if I thought he were the type to marry, he’s quite a lot to manage, and that would wear them both down after a while. But a series of long-term girls… that’s something I could see.

“The problem is, Murdoc won’t let it happen. If D were to even partially settle in with some girl, Murdoc would do his best to steal her or drive her away. It has been done,” Russel insisted, heading off any protest she might have, “and he will do it again. Even D knows it. He’d never admit it, but he knows it. So he’s left with one-night stands.

“But you know, even that’s not so bad,” Russel said. “D’s a pretty nice guy. With a nice girl, he can have a nice time. The problem is Murdoc. Murdoc’s not so nice. He’s got this… I dunno. Darkness. It’s something that thinks it’s demonic, and one thing demons do is possess.”

Russel stood up to grab a beer from the fridge and passed her a soda. She popped it open, but said nothing, enthralled by his analysis.

“Now, he can’t possess me, ‘cause I’ve already been possessed by bigger and badder things than Murdoc,” Russel continued, taking a drink from the can. “Whatever the thing inside him thinks it is, Murdoc is still basically human. He’s never gonna out-demon the shit I’ve seen. And he can’t possess you ‘cause, if there’s anything in his heart like love, it all belongs to you.”

She shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed by the suggestion that she should have such power, but Russel waved the concern away.

“Nah, it does,” he told her. “Whatever else you believe, you can believe this: we all love you. You’re our baby girl. Our little sister. Our killer guitarist. You’re our Noodle, and that’s something more important than you can know.

“But it does leave D out in the cold. 2-D was _made_ to be possessed. By drugs. By music… By Murdoc. It’s gonna get a little vulgar,” Russel warned her apologetically, “but let’s face facts: Murdoc has a massive boner for 2-D. Not who he is, but what he is. He’s a thing that can take all the darkness Murdoc throws at it and recover for cheap. Not completely, but enough. Enough to do it all again. So you had better believe that Murdoc will make damned sure 2-D never finds a long-term partner to take his place. And, in the meantime, he’ll keep abusing him. Feeding him enough darkness to make him sick and calling him back with scraps of light.”

“I hate it,” she admitted, glad to finally speak it out loud. “I hate what he does. I thought, when I was little, that it was _funny_ …”

“Then maybe you should say something,” Russel told her. “You’ll feel better. Hell, it might even make a difference, but I doubt it. 2-D has his pills, and this is Murdoc’s drug. He’s not going to give it up easily. More importantly, 2-D won’t give it up either. What possesses you becomes a part of you. You watch, baby girl. One day Murdoc will beat 2-D to within an inch of his life and still buy forgiveness with a handful of soft words… not one of them an apology. That’s because he’s seized 2-D so bad that any kindness from Murdoc is gold to him. Seized him so bad that 2-D actually thinks Murdoc is the kind of thing a person should be. Of course, D ain’t shit at it himself. Trying makes him look like a kid wearing his dad’s clothes. He thinks he’s flashing steel, but he’s brass at best and, whatever he’s fronting, he’ll roll over and wag his tail for pat on the head. Even if that pat comes after a week’s worth of kicks in the ass.”

Russel snorted and regarded his beer can, seemingly interested in the design of the label.

“It’s maybe more than you should hear,” he continued, “but I’ve been at parties in the past where D’s gone off with a bit of fluff and it’s always been a ritual worthy of a nature documentary. At least an hour or two of flirting and fussing and making sure both parties are on the same page with some basic emotional bonding through conversation and some cuddling before the disappearance behind the nearest closed door. The short-form version of the long-term relationship.

“Since we split up, it feels like 2-D will sleep with any girl who shows an interest. Whether in him as a singer or in whatever act he’s trying to pass off as his own. He wouldn’t notice if they were trying to take advantage of him – assuming Murdoc is right on any of those counts – and probably wouldn’t care if he did. If they treat him badly, so what? What’s coming is nice, right? Bad followed by nice is normal for him. It’s a sign that everything is as it should be. And if they’re nice to him, he’ll go along with anything they ask and damn the consequences.”

Russel sighed.

“If it makes you feel better, he does pay support, even if he needs a reminder as often as not. I don’t know if he’s seen any of them or if he wants to, but he’s not gonna leave a kid in a bad place, no matter what Murdoc says about them. Still, he’ll put up a front because Murdoc owns him and won’t let go. Is it a shit attitude? Maybe, but it’s not gonna change unless _Murdoc_ gets tired of it and slaps it out of 2-D himself, or we hold some kind of exorcism, and those are never as clean when it’s human possession as when demons are involved. 2-D was _made_ to be possessed. You’ll never get Murdoc’s claws out of him completely. The best you can hope for is to get another set of claws in him, something strong enough to give Muds a run for his money.”

He shrugged.

“In the meantime, if the attitude really bugs you, try to tilt the balance a little. Be less polite about things you don’t like. Reward things you do with your smile. Remember you’re our Noodle, and that means a lot. You’re the best thing that’s happened to this band.”

The best thing, she thought. And she could be more.

She thought hard on Russel’s words and tested them against her own feelings. She knew that she would have to have a clear picture of what was good and acceptable behaviour. She was still young, for all intents and purposes, but she carried with her the history of a made thing, a shaped thing, to be put to specific purpose. She would not want that for anyone she cared about. She could not force someone to change.

Bad habits, however, were another matter. Bad habits, particularly those that ruined the furniture, could be broken.

So she cleared her throat and glared at 2-D the next time he distractedly cut a notch into the kitchen table, switching her focus from his eyes to his hands when he looked up in startled confusion. This earned her a sheepish and rather charming grin as 2-D folded his knife back into the handle.

“Sorry,” he said. “I wan’t thinking. I’s just… It has a nice edge, yeah? I sharpened it proper. You have to… You have to really take care of ‘em or they dun work right, you know? You…”

2-D trailed off then, brow furrowing as he fiddled with the knife in his hands. She wondered if he thought he would be scolded… or if he thought she would be like Murdoc and punish such intrusive noise.

“I like to have tables without cut marks in them,” she told him, “but I also like to hear about the things that interest you. How do you take care of them properly?”

She might as well have presented 2-D with a key to the floodgates. His eyes lit up and a torrent of words poured out of him on everything from the right type of whetstone to sharpening techniques, to the importance of keeping all moving parts properly lubricated, to removing lint, to handling and acquisition, which was not, technically, legal for some of his collection, but entirely possible in back alleys and through special contacts. He had some that he preferred because of their shape, size, and weight.

She realized, although he did not say it, that he loved them because he could fuss with them, because they needed care and attention, but would not die without it. They could be brought back from neglect, if necessary, and one of his favourites was an older knife he had picked up, loose and rusted, and restored, although the spring mechanism remained somewhat worn. He played with them the way he played with broken keyboards, which he still enjoyed, but, during their hiatus, he had lacked the room and the steady stream of broken equipment that Kong Studios provided. Knives needed little space.

“And they’re fair flash, yeah?” he said, raising the one he carried for her inspection. “If you hold it, people know what you’re about.”

She tried to ignore the cocky edge that had crept back into 2-D’s voice and took the knife from him, turning it over in her hands. The handle was inlaid wood and nicely shaped.

“It is very lovely, but I… I cannot say I feel the same way,” she said, carefully handing the knife back to 2-D, who looked confused.

“I really enjoy listening to you talk about the things you like,” she explained, “but… for me, you will always be my Toochi. My _niichan_. A knife is not a big brother-like thing to me. I remember… sweetness and kindness. A knife feels very unsafe. Very aggressive. It feels like something Murdoc would use, but not, because he does not need a knife to be aggressive.”

2-D’s jaw tightened, giving faint warning. “An' I can’t be both?”

“I think it is a… very delicate balance,” she said cautiously.

The affected cockiness drained out of 2-D’s face and was replaced with something else, something rarer: an air of anger and resentment. Not, she thought, directed entirely at her, but she had called it forth somehow and, with no one else about, had become its sole focus. In wishing he would not appear aggressive, she had struck a nerve. One she had not seen exposed.

“It could just be me,” she admitted quickly. “I was much younger the last time we were all together. You would have been very careful around me then.”

She hoped the humility would mollify 2-D somewhat and she might have succeeded if Murdoc had not chosen that precise moment to wander into the room.

“Sweet Satan! Are you trying to light her on fire with your mind?” Murdoc said, catching the look on 2-D’s face and breezing past him to rummage through the cupboards for the dregs of a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “I haven’t seen that look on your face since I shagged your bird.”

2-D’s angry expression intensified slightly as he turned toward Murdoc, but Murdoc only grinned.

“Aww… lookit that. You warmed him up for me, Noods. That’s my girl,” he said, plunking the glass on the table so he could pat her on the shoulder. Then he poured himself a measure of spirits and tossed it back. “It takes real skill to get that expression out of him. You’re on your way to collecting the whole set.”

“I was not–“ she began, but did not have a chance to finish her thought.

“I’m just takin’ the piss, love,” Murdoc said, smooth as silk, speaking as though he were addressing her, but looking at 2-D as he poured himself another whiskey. “Although the spiteful look’s a good one on you, Dents. I use it all the time. Sharpens the mind. Helps you focus. I’ve got some arrangements I want to work out with you when you’ve got a minute.” He grinned slyly at her as he worked his way around the table to stand behind 2-D, letting his hand brush against 2-D’s shock of blue hair. “No rush, of course. I’ll be in the studio whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, Murdoc oiled his way out the door and she knew, simply knew, that 2-D would follow.

“Toochi…” she began, but did not know how to continue.

Some of 2-D’s anger evaporated, but he still looked hurt, even betrayed. He toyed with his knife and popped it open at the edge of the table. For a moment she thought he would skin a layer of wood off the surface simply to spite her, but he only tapped it against an existing notch and closed it again.

“I’m gonna go practise with Murdoc,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I dun wanna talk anymore right now.”

“Okay,” she said as he stood and left. She should have been irritated – he sounded like a sulky child – but her heart felt bruised and sore. 2-D was seldom angry and to be the focus of such an expression hurt more than she could have imagined. She turned the possibilities for his reaction over in her mind, but could find no reason for them. What did it matter if she preferred it when he was sweet and gentle?

She supposed there must be a reason, perhaps one he found difficult to speak of. Or perhaps he had spoken of it in what, to him, were clear terms and she had missed it, seeming uncaring or inattentive.

Whatever the cause, she had pushed too hard too quickly and, while it could be argued that she had a right to make her opinions known, this was not the way that she, herself, wished to go about it.

She gave him time to practise, time for music and the joy of making it to replace the heat of his anger, and rifled through her secret stash of high quality chocolates for a suitable peace offering. Had she been able to drive – legally – she would have gone out to fetch one of the cunning little cakes made by the bakery in town. As things stood, individually wrapped squares would have to do.

She found him in his room, door open, which was a good sign, and knocked lightly, waiting until he looked up at her and nodded slightly to step inside. He sprawled on his bed, thumbing through a magazine, but tossed it aside and sat up as she entered, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress.

She crouched down to meet his gaze, twisting the corded handles of the small, paper bonbon bag in her fingers.

“You can sit,” he told her, tilting his head toward the bed beside him. “If you like.”

“I would like,” she told him, and perched on the bed beside him.

He twisted his shirt between his fingers and picked at a spot of wear. He would not, or could not, look at her.

She gathered her courage and wondered how to begin, but 2-D saved her the trouble, blurting out, “Sorry.”

“What?” she said, bewildered.

“I’m sorry I upset you. I… I know I did, even if you won’t say it,” 2-D said and smiled, wan and tired. “I had to have a think about it, and I dun think too quickly—”

“I like that,” she told him, aware that she was interrupting, but needing him to know. “No one should think too quickly. Quick thinking means jumping to conclusions and these are often wrong.”

“I can jump to conclusions slowly too,” 2-D replied, his humour surprisingly good, for all that he looked worn out, “but I think I did okay this time. I just had to leave and sort it. I got mad ‘cause I thought… I dunno…”

2-D’s face scrunched up and he waved his hands toward his chest as though he were scooping up something soft and airy and gathering it into himself. Perhaps into his heart. As if the things he needed to say were too huge for his thoughts to wrap around without becoming lost along the way and needed to be compacted.

“You’re so grown up,” he said at last, gently melancholy. “You’re regular Noodle and sometimes you laugh like you did and talk like you did, but not as loud or as hard ‘cause you’re also diff'rent Noodle, so grown up, and sometimes you’re quiet, almost cold-like, and pretend like you’re not scared or sad or mad when you are, and a’s okay, but then you say I’m diff'rent too an like i’s bad and it feels like… like you’re the only one allowed to have things happen to them, to change, and it… it just…”

“Not so grown up,” she said, leaning against his shoulder. She coiled her arm around his and took his hand, still fluttering in his need to find words for the indescribable. “I wanted to say sorry too. I spoke badly. I did not mean… I… I’m not sure what I meant…” she finally admitted. “If showing you can be aggressive makes you feel safer, if it is how you protect yourself, if it helps you, I cannot say it is bad. But it… hurts a little that you think you need to be like that near me. That you don’t want to be… Well, to be like this.” She squeezed his hand and smiled against his shoulder. “To be a big brother. My niichan. I feel like I can feel more when I am with you like this. Like the things I want to be important really are, even when people say they are not. I brought some chocolates,” she said, the thought of important things returning them to mind. “Do you want one?”

“Yeah,” 2-D said and she released his hand to pull a square from her bag. He took it from her with a word of thanks, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth.

“I think it has praline,” she told him, taking the wrapper and dropping it into the bag for later disposal. “Praline is not the best one, but…”

“I’s good, pun’kin,” 2-D said and her heart trilled. Then he added, “Can I hug you?”

“Of course,” she told him and inched in closer so that he could drop an arm around her shoulders and squeeze her up against him briefly, so very briefly.

“I feel I have to ask ‘cause you’re so big now,” he said matter-of-factly, although the aura of melancholy still hung about him. “I’s a’right with li’l ones ‘cause they cuddle all the time, but I dun know if you like that now and I dun want it to be odd ‘cause you’re older…”

“You can always hug me, Toochi,” she told him. “If, sometimes, I would rather not be hugged, I will tell you. I trust you to stop if I ask. I would rather you always hug me and not be worried. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And I like to hear about the things you like,” she said carefully, “but I like it best when they are things we both like. About games and music and movies. I miss watching movies with you. We have not done that in a very long time.”

“Was gonna watch a bunch of Cronenberg if you wanna come,” 2-D admitted. “I’s a lot’a body horror though. Dunno if you like that much. Dunno if you’re even old enough.”

She snorted.

“I watched a lot of horror movies when I was ten. Body horror?”

2-D prodded the gap left by his missing front teeth with his tongue, a sign that he was deep in thought, and then rubbed at the corner of one eye.

“Sometimes it makes me feel better,” he said, answering the why rather than the what.

“Okay,” she said. “Popcorn?”

He agreed and smiled, though he still seemed tired. She wondered if it was a hangover from their tension in the kitchen or if something had happened during his practise with Murdoc, but she did not dare ask about it. It might be selfish, but she was afraid of tipping the balance when he was behaving like the gentle brother she remembered, even if he seemed quieter and sadder.

Instead, she went to make popcorn, leaving him to prepare the cinema – the only place for a proper film festival – the chocolates still in his care. When she went to find him, he had created a nest from two of the seats, reclining them and padding them with pillows and blankets, the central arm rest kicked up to give them space and conveniently allow her to toss up against him, feigning fright and revulsion and prompting him to pat her hair even though he knew better than to believe in her distress.

Surprisingly, they were eventually joined by Murdoc who brought a cooler of conventional beverages, a bottle of rum, and questionable anecdotes. He flopped into the seat on 2-D’s far side with the declaration of “Sex slugs! My favourite STD. I caught some once, you know. That’s why we don’t do shows in Montreal.” Russel arrived some time later announcing pizza and assorted sides at the unfortunate moment of Jeff Goldblum demonstrating Seth Brundle’s new dining habits.

Nevertheless, pizza was distributed, eaten, and kept down throughout the course of several movies. She, of course, had no difficulties; the grotesque did not bother her. Body horror, as 2-D had said, made so many other things easier to deal with.

“Well. No one told _me_ Canada was the fag end of Hell,” Murdoc said when stiffness and the late hour prompted an end to the festivities. “Pack your bags, lads. We leave in the morning.”

“Stuff it, Muds,” Russel said, yawning. “It’s too damned late to listen to you yammer. If I’m gonna put any work in tomorrow, I gotta call it. You sure you won’t have nightmares, Noodle?”

She assured him she was fine, that the movies had not scared her, and he took his leave, followed shortly by Murdoc. 2-D sprawled in his seat, showing no sign of moving, so she stayed where she was as well, huddled up against him, listening to him breathe, deep and slow. She tried to convince herself that there was nothing to it, that he was sleepy-full of pizza and popcorn and candy, that he had been smoking pot – although he only smelled of cigarettes and chocolate – that he was lost in thought, but the melancholia still hung about him, even as he half-stroked her hair, scooping up a few strands and letting them slide between his fingers, his arm propped on the seat behind her.

“Are you all right?” she said at last.

“Yeah,” he told her and shifted his weight, prompting her to sit up. “I guess it din’t help so much as I thought it would. But I’m glad you watched with me.”

He ruffled her hair the way he had when she was a child.

“I was happy to watch with you,” she told him as they stood. Looking around the cinema, they opted to leave everything where it was and clean up in the morning. If Murdoc and Russel could not be bothered to pick anything up, then neither could they. “Do you… want me to stay with you tonight?”

2-D smiled and shook his head, which relieved her more than she cared to admit. At the age of nearly-fifteen, there was a difference between tossing up against one’s big brother and sharing a bed with him, at least while other beds were available. Even so, she worried a little because his smile did not reach his eyes.

“I think I need some time with me,” he said, puzzling her, but he did not seem inclined to elaborate.

He took her hand as they left the cinema, even though she was not a child and knew her way around by heart, and she allowed it because he seemed to want the contact. When he dropped her off at her bedroom door, the light of his smile had crept a bit higher and he released her hand.

“I think you’re too old to be put to bed,” he said, and she agreed although, for half a heartbeat, she wished she did not. “We should… play a bit sometime soon. You and me. On the keyboards. Try some sounds for your music. Maybe some extra lyrics. I have… I have some ideas.”

He said it almost fearfully, as though preparing to be shot down, but she jumped up to hug him, gratified when he caught her around the waist. The moment was brief, but served its purpose.

“I would like that,” she told him. “Have a good night, Toochi. You and… you.”

He smiled, attempted a Japanese-style bow whose failure made her laugh, and waited until she was in her room and ready to close the door before turning away and heading down the hall.

Time with himself, she wondered as she changed and rolled into bed. Time to be alone, maybe. Time for self-stimulation, she might have thought, given that it was 2-D, but he did not strike her as being in the mood for anything so frivolous.

Unwilling to pursue that train of thought, she allowed sleep to overtake her and drowned it out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional notes and warnings:** This chapter veers into world building, including an original female character. Most importantly, this chapter has explicit scenes of physical abuse.

Recording went more smoothly for a while after that. Not perfectly, of course, as her bandmates often squabbled amongst themselves and argued with her about the album’s content, what should be recorded next, and how they should go about it. She was open to suggestions, but also insisted on the right to veto anything that went entirely against her vision, a right to which Russel acquiesced with grace, 2-D sometimes grumbled about, but went along with, and Murdoc sulked over although he did not dare to countermand anything she declared set in stone. It was a hassle, but it also supported Russel’s claim that she ruled the band – though not with an iron fist. She liked to think she was more accommodating than that.

In spite of their heart-to-heart, cockiness continued to creep into 2-D’s attitude, but it seemed to mellow somewhat. At the very least, he did not fall into it when he and she were alone together. It surfaced mainly during stressful video shoots, in the face of unflattering media crews, and whenever Murdoc became insufferable or tried to steal credit, particularly for her song writing. When it was a defence mechanism, a small show of courage and pride – in his musical skills, in his voice, and in her – she did her best to tolerate it, no matter how badly he carried it. If it spilled into other areas and grated too badly on her nerves, a moue of disappointment was often enough to quell it – at least in her presence.

On the whole, however, she felt better about 2-D. He genuinely enjoyed the album and how it was shaping up, complained far less than Murdoc if he was not prominently featured in a song or a video, was much more easily appeased with compliments on other performances when he _did_ complain, and even contributed valuable insights on certain songs, his love of sound teasing out counterpoints and undertones that served only to enhance what she had already written. He often declined official credit, but did insist on bragging rights, to which she agreed although she knew, in her deepest heart, that he would only rub them in Murdoc’s face and earn himself a fresh set of bruises.

Most happily for her, 2-D seemed, on the whole, healthier and and more content than in the days when he had first arrived. He did not attend fewer parties, but she thought he attended them differently, returning to a time when he would arrive home merely drunk or stoned and sleep off his excesses, rather than being dragged in by Murdoc, or anyone kind enough to assist him, a physical and emotional wreck needing more medication than was entirely safe for him simply to function in the morning. It was not perfect, but it was an improvement.

And then there was Janice.

Pert, brown-haired, bubbly Janice, who barely reached 2-D’s shoulder, who wore snug jeans that hugged her bottom and loose crop-tops that disguised her bust but showed the little swell of her belly, who joked and laughed easily and, for limited periods, put up with the band’s gross behaviour. Janice, who had caught one of their live promos, and then heard about them filming some filler for television spots and come to star gaze. Janice, who had accidentally kicked up a conversation with 2-D by passing him a water bottle when he had stumbled off to the side to have a sit and swallow a couple of painkillers before a headache overtook him. Janice, who was sweet and sympathetic and tentatively offered a shoulder rub that seemed to help, who was rewarded with tea from “that shop on the corner”. Janice, who was warm and lively and willing… but not today.

Not today, because she was not a groupie. Not today, because she wanted to know something of the people she slept with. Not today because, although she did not expect a lifetime, she did expect some interest and respect.

Not today, because she deserved that much.

So there was tea, again. And again. And a restaurant. And another. And a film, a horror, because Janice liked them too. A lot, it seemed, because after the film came the hotel, followed swiftly by Janice.

Of course, she did not know that until the next morning, when 2-D stumbled in, disheveled and delirious, a sappy grin plastered all over his face.

She approved very much of Janice.

There were more restaurants, and more films, and probably more hotels – although she never asked about that, merely inferred it by 2-D’s behaviour – and then Janice finally came to Kong Studios.

Janice played video games, and watched films in the cinema, and listened to the band discuss – well, argue about – song direction, duelling it out with riffs and melodies, because she loved music, even though she had no talent herself. At the end of the day, Janice drove herself home.

Janice came to Kong Studios three times, engaging with all of the band members, flattering Murdoc, who took it as his due and grumbled about her behind her back, making even Russel smile, although he voiced no opinion about her when she was not around, and happily chattering for hours with 2-D’s “little sister” about things both girly and not so much, often from the circle of 2-D’s arm while he listened to them, somewhat bewildered by the speed of their conversation, but kept purring like a cat with little compliments and touches, pleased just to be in Janice’s presence. His cock-sure attitude even smoothed out a little when he was near her, becoming playfully flirtatious, although Janice did not hesitate to prune it back if it became insufferable, always managing to deflate 2-D’s ego without harming his confidence.

On her fourth visit to Kong Studios, Janice spent the entire weekend. An entire, giggly, love-filled weekend.

She made Janice _waffles_.

She _loved_ Janice.

Janice came by Kong several more times, and then, one day, took her leave with a tight, sad smile on her face.

No more Janice.

She was never quite sure what became of Janice. No one talked about it, not even 2-D, who stopped smiling and no longer engaged with the group outside of making the album. At the end of the day, he barricaded himself in his room, meeting any knock at the door with the clatter of a thrown object and the invitation to “Sod off.”

“At least it proves he’s alive,” Russel told her when she complained about it. He said nothing about Janice when she asked, but did give her a knowing look. He had liked Janice, but had never held much hope for her. She was a lovely girl with many fine qualities, but claws were not among them.

Murdoc was evasive about the matter, dismissing Janice as a thrill-seeker who had had her fun. He called 2-D blind and a dullard, often to his face, for thinking anything would come of it. Told him she would never have come with them on tour and been unfaithful while they were gone. That she would get tired of 2-D and his dependencies: on drugs, on music, on her.

2-D said nothing to these things. He simply kept on playing, kept on singing, and returned to his room at the end of the session.

In the face of such unhelpful comments, she mined scraps of data from their everyday conversation and pieced together a plausible scenario. Janice had either been hit on by Murdoc or subtly threatened by him through 2-D. Perhaps both. She had no doubt that Janice would have happily come on tour, but, if her daily life would not permit it, she felt Janice would not have been unfaithful. She would sooner believe it of 2-D, who would not do so maliciously, but might – in a fit of loneliness and a stupor of drugs and alcohol – tumble into bed with a sympathetic stranger. However, she also had the sneaking suspicion that Janice would guard against that in a way that could possibly demand heavy curtains around 2-D’s bunk. Janice might certainly have tired of 2-D’s dependencies, but not so easily or so quickly. It might not have been forever, but it could have been long enough.

Janice had been sad when she had left. 2-D was miserable even now. Murdoc was indecently pleased about the whole affair. Russel remained unsurprised.

It was not difficult to see the shape of the story, even if she did not know the details.

2-D continued to stick up for her whenever Murdoc tried to take credit for her work, but his voice no longer swelled with pride. Instead, his protests rode a wave of bitterness and spite reserved solely for her protection. Insults against himself, his voice, or his abilities went unheeded. If anything, he curled himself inward against their sting, his confidence and ego soundly slapped back down to their rightful place, surfacing briefly as ghosts in hateful glares and minute sneers that wrinkled his nose.

“You look like an angry rabbit,” Murdoc told him one day as they were setting up to rehash a couple of arrangements. “Are you not over that little tart yet? She’d have been bad for you, Dents. A distraction. The clingy ones are, you know. Always wanting to come around and make a show of being useful. How long d'you think that would have lasted when she had to start feeding you medication? Or putting up with your pissing and moaning every time you got a bloody migraine? She’d need the patience of a saint. Not to mention how accident prone you are.” He grinned. “Apt to get killed just standing next to you.”

“Oh, sod off,” 2-D spat, willing to stir himself a little on Janice’s behalf. “You’re the only bloody accident around here.”

She tensed as she tuned her guitar and sensed the same fear of retaliation in Russel, but Murdoc only laughed.

“Now, now… No need to be rude,” Murdoc said. “What would you have done when we’d gone on tour, eh? Knocked her up to keep her busy? Oh, but then she wouldn’t have been as interesting, would she…”

“Was only the ones,” 2-D murmured. “I been careful since… I been careful.”

“Yeah, well, you can be careful with the aviary you’ll get in the crowds,” Murdoc told him. “Flighty birds as far as the eye can see. Some of them at every show, like that weird punk girl with the bovver boots and chains. She looked like a good time. Fuck me, you remember those two chippies at the home shows? That red-head and the blonde with the knockers, always pushing up against the stage…”

2-D said nothing, offering only a half-hearted shrug as he fixed the wiring for his equipment and taped down the trailing cords to avoid tripping.

“Good point,” Murdoc commented. “Better to not get some local bird up the duff with an idiot child. Keep it wrapped and, if you can’t, spread it far and wide at the away shows so you don’t bring the national IQ down. Eastbourne’ll have it bad enough in the next few years.”

She watched a ripple of tension run up 2-D’s spine, tightening muscles across his back to his shoulders and from his shoulders to his fingers, which curled instinctively into a fist. In one fluid motion, he stood, turned, and punched Murdoc across the jaw.

Time screeched to a halt.

It started crawling forward again as horror filled her chest. 2-D _never_ hit Murdoc. He never hit _back_ let alone hit _first_. She stood slack-jawed, knowing what was coming, unable to do anything about it.

Russel must have felt the same because they both remained rooted to the spot, fused by the enormity of what they had witnessed.

Murdoc looked stunned, but not nearly as stunned as 2-D, who stared at the fist that had betrayed him as he tried to wrap his mind around the situation. Murdoc looked stunned, but remained unfazed, thumbing his cheek and jaw as though searching for breaks, and finding none because 2-D, while he might leave a mark, was not the strongest fighter in the room.

Murdoc tilted his head, rolled his shoulder, and time rushed forward, careening wildly at double speed as he punched 2-D in the stomach hard enough to knock him off his feet. By the time 2-D tumbled backwards onto the floor and managed to draw air back into his lungs, Murdoc had pulled off his belt and whipped him twice across the forearms, which he had raised instinctively to shield his face. Murdoc tried four more lashes from the front and the sides before he hit on the idea of snapping the belt across 2-D’s ribs, causing him to yelp and unthinkingly drop one of his arms to cover them. Sensing an opening, Murdoc flicked the belt once more, landing it across 2-D’s jaw and mouth.

And then she was shrieking 2-D’s name and Russel had Murdoc by the arms, hauling him back and shouting “That’s enough! That’s enough!” as she tumbled down beside 2-D and tried to pull his arms away to assess the damage.

Understandably, 2-D fought her a while, afraid of being touched, of being hurt further, but she coaxed him with soft words, reminding him that she was not Murdoc, listening as Russel forcibly ejected the actual Murdoc from the studio and followed after him, giving her and 2-D some space and some quiet. She coaxed him until he uncurled from his protective shell, silent but for his panicked, fluttery breathing, and huddled instead against the wall, questing inside his mouth for broken teeth, the blood of a split lip mingling with the saliva that coated his fingers. He wiped them on his shirt, leaving a pinkish smear.

“2-D,” she said, speaking his name gently, but firmly, and repeating it to get his attention. “2-D, are you all right? Do you feel sick?”

“Nuh,” he murmured, eyes wide and over-bright with confusion, and she could not decide if he meant he was not all right or he did not feel sick.

“Are you going to _be_ sick?” she clarified. “He hit you very hard.”

2-D hung his head as he shook it and she could not tell if it was a reply to her question or a denial of everything that went before it. She banked on the former and hovered her hands near the hem of his shirt.

“May I see?” she said and, when he did not respond after a few seconds, gingerly lifted his shirt to expose his abdomen, moving slowly in case he changed his mind and brushed her away.

Murdoc had good aim. The punch had caught 2-D just below the ribs, neatly in the centre. A reddish blotch radiated outward from the point of contact, promising a bruise. It mirrored the red welt across his left ribs, but offered far greater cause for concern. She touched it gently, testing the consistency of his skin as her training had taught her, feeling nothing untoward, although 2-D winced a little and tried to draw back against the wall.

“All right,” she said softly, taking her hands away. “Nothing feels strange or doughy, but a doctor should look at it. When Russel gets back…”

“No,” 2-D said, drawing his arms back over his abdomen so she could not see it. “No. I dun like hospitals.”

“You got punched. You might have internal bleeding,” she insisted, speaking slowly, reasonably.

“No,” 2-D insisted, shaking his head, looking calmer than she felt. He offered her a smile, pained, but genuine. “I’s all right. I know. Dun be scared.”

“What a stupid thing to say!” she snapped, and 2-D’s smile faltered a little, but did not fade.

In fact, she _was_ scared. She was _terrified_. Not of Murdoc, but for 2-D. She was a thing made for combat and violence, and yet she had never seen Murdoc attack 2-D in such a way. She knew he could lash out in anger, had even seen him slap 2-D across the head or throw an object in his direction, but never witnessed a whipping like this. She hated that she had watched it happen and done nothing. She hated nearly as much that 2-D was right and that her emotions threatened to run away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to regain control. “That was mean. I… I’m just concerned. You could be badly hurt.”

“I dun think too fast, but I feel a lot,” 2-D said, brow furrowed as though uncertain whether he was explaining himself correctly. “I know what I should feel like. It hurts a bit, but if something was broken, I think I’d know.”

“Organs are softer than bones,” she argued.

“They dun snap,” 2-D agreed, “but they… uh…” 

He made a hard, pressing gesture with his hands to indicate compression stress, and then a sliding, sheering motion for muscle stress.

He does know, she thought, horrified. Even without the vocabulary, he knows.

“I have a lot of accidents,” he said, readjusting his position for comfort, almost completely at ease now that it was just the two of them, “and Murdoc’s pretty careful. He dun like too much trouble.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. There were no words to make that statement okay.

Russel saved her the trouble of searching by knocking softly, and then entering the room.

“I got some ice packs,” he said, holding up a couple of bags of frozen vegetables.

“I dun like peas,” 2-D said, gingerly touching the swelling corner of his mouth.

“You’re not… They’re not for eatin’ man,” Russel said, perplexed, but she had caught the flicker of devilry in 2-D’s eyes before he winced at the sting of his lip.

That was a _joke_ , she realized. He was whipped with a belt and was making jokes. Why?

And why was this the first time she had noticed it? Was it the first time he had intentionally used a silly statement to diffuse a situation or had it simply always slipped by her? Did she only see it now because she was kneeling so close to him?

“Here you go, D,” Russel said, squatting down beside them and handing 2-D a large bag of vegetables wrapped in a towel. “Put that over your chest and stomach. You might want to lean your arms on it too.”

2-D turned the parcel over, looking somewhat lost, and then pressed it to his abdomen, holding it in place with welt-covered arms. He winced and sighed and licked at the corner of his mouth before Russel pressed a smaller bag against his lips and jaw.

“Let me,” she said, settling in beside 2-D and taking control of the cold pack. “We shouldn’t leave them on more than ten minutes,” she told Russel, pulling the information out of her head as though she were reading it in a book. “Maybe fifteen at the most. After that, we can move him and let everything refreeze. Do you think he needs a doctor? I do, but he refuses.”

2-D tried to protest, but could not speak against the ice pack. Russel prompted 2-D to briefly show his belly and asked her for details. She reluctantly admitted that there did not seem to be anything wrong at present, all the while ensuring the pack remained in place over 2-D’s mouth.

“All right,” Russel said when 2-D uttered a small whine of protest. “This kind of thing can be serious sometimes, but other times it can be shaken off. He hasn’t puked yet, so that’s a good sign. If he’s that dead-set against going, how about we cut a deal? We’ll leave it for now and keep an eye on it. If the mark gets any bigger or something else feels wrong, we bring him in and he comes quietly.”

She wanted to bring 2-D in immediately, if only to get him away from Murdoc, but as she watched 2-D pull his arm away from the soothing cold to rub first at one eye, and then the other, she knew it would not be worth the hassle. Between the soreness and the stress, 2-D was apt to be exhausted, increasing the chance of disabling migraines. The effects of whatever medication he had taken last were likely wearing off as well, which would only lead to greater pain.

In the end, she saw the reason in Russel’s proposal and nodded. 2-D agreed as well, brushing her hands aside momentarily to stipulate that, if there was to be waiting, he would like to do it in his bed and not on the floor, thank you very much.

Russel hung around, Murdoc having “fucked off somewhere”, but she took on most of the responsibility for monitoring 2-D. She wanted to. Something in her demanded it, demanded she control the situation, assessing the risks and variables, screaming against 2-D’s unwillingness to follow the most logical course and be examined, but she also wanted to. She wanted to move gently, treating him like china. She wanted to whisper reassurances, occasionally slipping into Japanese that he did not understand, but could infer from the tone of her voice. She wanted to be soft. She wanted to be warm. He was a reason to be both.

2-D slipped an arm around her waist, leaning dazedly against her as she fussed. To Russel, he would appear to be seeking comfort, but she felt him drawing circles at the small of her back and up her spine as though she were the one who needed care.

Why? she wondered. Why?

She did not discourage it, however. It was… nice. It was calming, both the action and knowing he felt well enough to do it. If it calmed him in turn, it could only be to the good.

At a little past the ten-minute mark, she removed the pack from 2-D’s jaw, and then from his abdomen, assuring him they could be put back in twenty to thirty minutes, after they had frozen again and his skin had warmed a little. He listened politely as she talked, rubbing at his eyes and ears, and she realized that, if he had his own way, he would be asleep by then. She fretted over giving him painkillers, knowing she would have to anyway. She did not think any of his medication included a blood thinner, and he did not appear to be nauseous, so she supposed it would be all right.

Russel dismissed her attempts to help 2-D to his feet, correctly stating that if 2-D had to crouch or bend over enough for her to be of assistance, it would only make things worse. Being correct did not mean she had to like it, however, and she huffed at him as she begrudgingly unwrapped the bags of vegetables from their towels and returned them to the freezer, taking the time to fill a glass of water before seeking out 2-D and Russel. By the time she caught back up with them, they were in 2-D’s room and Russel had managed to help 2-D ease out of his constrictive clothing and into a pair of loose sweat pants for sleeping.

“I don’t know if it’s lucky or not that you got so little meat on you,” Russel said, frowning over the vivid red marks on 2-D’s torso as she crept into the room. They looked alarming, but did not appear to have spread at all. “You’d think a little fat would give you some padding, but that might have meant more tissue damage. Who knows? You got a bad one comin’ on there, Dents?”

“Maybe,” 2-D replied, adding the bridge of his nose to the inventory of body parts at which he pawed in his discomfort.

“You’ve had it pretty rough,” Russel sympathized, “but if you take the strong stuff, you won’t be able to have anything else. You good with that?”

2-D nodded as Russel fished around in his nightstand and pulled out a handful of bottles, checking each of them until he found the pills he wanted. He took the glass of water from her and passed it and the medication to 2-D. Once he had swallowed it, Russel helped him get settled in bed, closed the blinds and the curtains to darken the room as much as possible, shut the light, and closed the door on their way out.

Then he sighed and looked down at her.

“I know it’s early, but you might as well get changed and go lie down with him,” he said. “If you don’t, you’re going to start pacing and wear a hole through the floor. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have someone there anyway, just to make sure he doesn’t choke if he _does_ puke. Give him ten or so to drop off so you won’t shock him awake if you jostle him.”

“I don’t—” she began, but she did and Russel knew it.

He cut her protest short with a pat on the shoulder and the promise to keep an eye out for Murdoc, and then left her to her own devices. She ran to her room and wriggled into something pyjama-worthy, flitting anxiously about until ten minutes ticked by… and then eleven, just to be safe. She then flew back down to 2-D’s room and eased the door open, careful to let as little light in as possible, shutting it behind her.

She felt less weird about sleeping next to 2-D when he was sick than when he was well, but even so, her almost-fifteen sense of propriety could only be pushed so far. She scrounged up an extra blanket and curled up on top of the sheets beside him, close enough to hear his breathing and sense the rise and fall of his chest, but far enough to not raise questions. She thought him asleep, but his arm curled around her, drawing her a little bit closer. Close enough to feel the heat of her, because heat was good and made aches dull.

“Heya, pun’kin,” 2-D whispered, his voice muzzy with sleep. “Still scared?”

“Not scared. Angry,” she told him. It was not exactly the truth, but it was close enough. She _was_ scared. But she was also angry. Angry at Murdoc for hitting 2-D. Angry at 2-D for letting Murdoc hit him. Angry at herself for letting 2-D get hit.

“Dun be angry neither,” he said, stroking her hair. “I’s no good. Just makes you tired. I shun’ta got angry. Shun’ta hit him.”

“You were supposed to get angry,” she said. “He was baiting you. He wanted you to hit him so he could hit you back.”

“Nuh. He wanted me to yell,” 2-D murmured, “so he could yell back or throw a shoe at me or something. I surprised him. Went right off his bonce.”

“It was wrong,” she insisted.

2-D was silent for several seconds.

“Yeah,” he said at last, “but it won’t change nothin’. Go to sleep, pun’kin.”

She wanted to protest, but 2-D needed rest and it would be cruel of her to keep him awake, so she said nothing, although she thought of it for a while, lining up her arguments and counter-arguments until she dozed off to the lull of 2-D’s breathing, secure in the warmth between them.


	7. Chapter 7

Her world began to fray over the next day or two as 2-D’s bruises grew livid and awful, although they did not appear to have spread, and that was good. Better, at least, than the bitter and brittle reality through which she had to wade.

She wondered when the band she had loved so much – the only family she had known – had become so dysfunctional. It took the picking apart of many memories to realize that it had always been so, but that a child would not have noticed, or, perhaps, could not have understood it at the time. There were many things she never saw, things that would not have been done in front of a ten-year-old – things that might not be done in front her even now – that could nevertheless be inferred by snippets of half-remembered conversations run through the translator of her teenaged years and the knowledge that had been unlocked within her during her time in Japan.

Of course, memories could be deceptive and she also wondered how many of them had been twisted in her quest to find strands that would best fit her current outlook, never minding that they soured the only happy memories she had. She also needed to take into account all the things that had happened to them since they had parted ways in Los Angeles: Murdoc’s criminal activities and subsequent punishments, Russel’s maddening grief and failed attempts to relieve it, and 2-D’s…

She could not quite account for 2-D.

All in all, it was a complicated matter, and one that was not relieved by the constant presence of her bandmates, especially Murdoc, whom she had tried very hard to hate once he had slunk back home from the hole in which he had drowned himself with whiskey and rum, and who yet managed to evade her ire. She _was_ still angry, and she was wary, but she was completely unable to generate the sheer amount of rage needed to confront him, although she could not understand why.

She wondered if 2-D often felt this way, and the thought made her sad. At least Murdoc never hit her.

This complex stew of emotions was stirred further when she went to look in on 2-D, carrying a tray of food. Although his bruises had faded somewhat, he remained stiff and sore and inclined to keep to his room. She was happy to help him out, checking in on him and bringing him something at noon, although she insisted that he leave his room for the rest of his meals. It helped that, in his pain and isolation, he was every bit as kind and sweet as she remembered – if a bit distracted – and that bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She did not like the thought that her care might be conditional.

But it was neither her care nor 2-D’s attitude that stopped her outside his door. It was the sound of Murdoc’s voice.

Murdoc, always aware of his own best interests, had given 2-D a wide berth since returning to the studio, perhaps sensing – correctly – that neither she nor Russel would stand for a repeat performance of his attack with the belt. It surprised her, therefore, to hear him chatting with 2-D in low, soothing tones.

“—let them take you,” Murdoc said. The first half of his conversation was lost to distance, but she could hear him clearly now that she neared 2-D’s open door.

“Dun like doctors,” 2-D replied. “I’s fine anyway. Din’t get worse. I told ‘em nothing was broken.”

“I suppose you’d know. Can I see, love?” Murdoc paused, silent, as 2-D… what? Lifted the hem of his shirt? Extended an arm? And then, smugly, “I did quite a number on you, didn’t I? Looks rough.”

2-D hissed.

“Sorry… Sorry, love,” Murdoc said in the tone of someone who was not sorry at all. “Just wanted to turn your arm a bit. See how far it all went. I found this cream for ya. Got it off some New Age bird I shagged a few weeks back. S’posed to be good for bumps and bruises. Says right there on the package. ‘Course, the type’s a bit small. You might not be able to see it. Could be a load of bunk – you know those types – but it can’t hurt to try. I mean, it’s a real packaged medicine. Worst you can do is lose your money and I got it free, so that part’s sorted.”

“You sure i’s a’right?” 2-D asked, uncertain, but obviously considering the proposition.

She could hardly believe 2-D was willing to trust Murdoc to come into his room, much less dispense medicine, but she was not entirely surprised that Murdoc was able to sell him on the idea. Murdoc was a quick thinker and a fast talker. 2-D was… not.

She walked into the room carrying the tray as if she had only just arrived and managed to catch Murdoc uncapping a white, medicinal-looking tube.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Oh, this?” Murdoc said, offering her an innocent smile. “It’s just a bit of medication. Got it off someone some time ago. It’s supposed to help with bruising. Ease stiffness and help break down the blood. That sort of thing. It’s all very proper, if you want to have a look.”

“I do,” she said, putting her tray down on the bed, and taking the tube from Murdoc’s outstretched hand.

2-D eyed the soup and sandwiches she had brought like they were water in the desert, but Murdoc distracted him, delicately taking his jaw and turning it this way and that, getting a good look at the mark that darkened the side of 2-D’s face. 2-D winced a little and looked annoyed, but did not complain and so she let it go for the moment. For all she knew, it was Murdoc’s attempt to distract her from checking the instructions on the tube.

She looked the thing over and carefully read the tiny print, but found nothing untoward. It was an herbal remedy. She had even heard of it before. She had her doubts regarding its effectiveness, but she was not aware of any danger in using it. Either it would work or it would not. They would likely never know as bruises took time to fade with or without assistance. If nothing else, 2-D might feel cared for, increasing his overall sense of wellbeing.

“Looks okay,” she said, handing it back to Murdoc. “Let him eat first. He slept through breakfast.”

“It’ll only be a minute,” Murdoc assured her, uncapping the tube and squeezing some of the cream into one hand. With the other, he neatly caught 2-D’s arm and smeared the cream along its length, rubbing it in with both hands like a masseuse as 2-D’s expression twitched with varying levels of discomfort. “Besides, I gave him a cupcake from that shop in town as a bit of an offering, didn’t I, Dents? That should hold you for a minute or two.”

“Not much, a cupcake,” 2-D replied, wrinkling his nose in his annoyance. “Not the hands. Noodle brought me a sandwich.”

“I’m watching,” Murdoc replied mildly, catching 2-D’s other arm to repeat the process. He also avoided 2-D’s lips while treating his bruised jaw, but was a little less careful about where his thumb was jabbing and 2-D flinched away more than once, earning a quiet rebuke for squirming. After 2-D’s face, Murdoc moved down to his abdomen, using both hands again and digging in firmly as 2-D writhed a little beneath his touch.

“You’re all wound up,” Murdoc offered by way of excuse as he worked the cream into the skin over 2-D’s ribs and stomach. “You’ll give yourself a bellyache if you don’t relax.”

When his task was complete, Murdoc pulled 2-D’s shirt back down and gave him an almost affectionate pat.

“See? Not so rough,” he said as 2-D rubbed his arms together, not daring to touch them with his hands. “I’ll let you get back to your lunch. Looks like Noodle worked hard for you. You should appreciate every bite. I’ll leave this behind in case you need more.”

And, with that, Murdoc dropped the tube on 2-D’s night table and eased himself out of the room.

“At least he tries,” 2-D said, picking up a half-sandwich and taking a bite.

Soft words, she thought. And not one of them an apology.

“He does _not_ try,” she said, her jaw tight with aimless fury.

She wanted to tell 2-D that she had just witnessed Murdoc hurt him, very carefully and very deliberately, under the guise of help. But had she really? Could she say so for sure? 2-D had not complained that the pain was excessive, even though he had winced and squirmed a little. And he _was_ very sore and tender. She might have hurt him just as easily if she had done the same.

No, she thought. She would not have. Maybe a little, but not so excessively. She would have let him eat first, so that he could put the cream on himself, if he wanted, without worrying about the state of his hands. She would not have made him use it at all if he was not interested.

She certainly would not have been smug about the state of his arms.

“He can be nice,” 2-D insisted. “When he wants to be.”

“To make you forget when he is not,” she replied, settling on his bed and picking up half a sandwich. Most of the food she had brought had been for 2-D, but she had included some for herself as well, so they could eat together.

2-D stared at his sandwich – stared _through_ it – for several seconds.

“Yeah,” he agreed. He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Noodle?”

“Hmm?” she murmured, mouth full.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

The bread in her mouth turned mealy and dry, but it permitted her to signal that she needed a moment, allowing her time to think as she chewed and swallowed.

“That is an unfair question, Toochi,” she told him. “People can be stupid about some things and not others.”

“But I’m not smart,” he said, a statement, not a question. It did not sound accusatory, but she felt guilty all the same.

“That is not fair either,” she said. “You can be smart about a lot of things without being smart in everything.”

The tightening of 2-D’s jaw told her that was the wrong answer. More precisely, perhaps, that it was a vague and confusing answer. He glared at nothing as he ate a few more bites of sandwich and drank some soup from a mug. And then—

“Am I too stupid to have kids?”

“Oh,” she said. “That would depend on what you mean. Are you asking about what Murdoc said? Because I think it was only to make you angry. Are you asking if you would be a good father? I think maybe not, but not because you are stupid. I think you like being in a band and doing band things too much. You… throw all of you into everything you do, so, if you were a father, you would have to choose and, if you did not choose music, I think you would be sad.” She laughed nervously. “But I know very little. I had no father or mother that I remember, only the workers in the program that made me, and I think you are a wonderful big brother. But then, we are both in the same band, so there is no choosing.”

She fidgeted with her sandwich before taking another bite, glancing up at 2-D as she did so. He was looking down on her now, brow furrowed. Then he smiled, a bright and true thing that nevertheless did not meet his eyes.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “That question wan’t fair. Not to you.”

He changed the subject to the lyrics he had been toying with before lunch, making small refinements to the album material and playing with various other themes and ideas, some serious and some just for fun. He shared a few that were silly and slightly dirty, apologizing insincerely when she gasped in mock horror even though, at nearly-fifteen, it was the pinnacle of humour.

After lunch, 2-D wanted to lie down for a while, but thought he would be ready to slink back into society later that afternoon. She hugged him, told him that she was happy, that she had missed him, and gathered up the dishes. When she returned to the kitchen, Murdoc greeted her, chair tilted back, saved from spillage by the precise way he hooked his legs under the table. He rested a glass on his knee, filled with what looked and smelled like rum and cola.

“You didn’t need to hurt him,” she said by way of reply. She benched the tray and fetched herself a clean glass.

“Well, he did hit me first, love,” Murdoc said as she poured herself some juice. “You don’t hit a man if you’re not prepared to be hit back. But I shouldn’t’ve gone after the kiddies. Uncalled for, under the circumstances.”

“So was the whipping,” she said, the words harsh and sour on her tongue, “but I meant just now. It was not necessary to be so rough when looking at his bruises. You can be soft with him, you know. You can be gentle.”

“I think you’re old enough to know me better than that.”

Murdoc took a sip of his drink and eyed her critically.

“Fuck me, but you’re young. Still just a kid, really. But stuck having to be the grown-up in this Hell-hole. If I’m gonna feel bad about anything, it’ll be that. I mean, I like you. If I were gonna have a kid, I’d want it to be you. You’re a clear thinker, practical, logical, and not completely fucked up in the head, even with the super-soldier stuff. A little, maybe, but who isn’t, eh?”

He grinned at her, an expression both genuinely affectionate and slightly vicious.

“So for that, I’ll give you free advice. Don’t be like Russel. Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s stupid. And don’t give me that look,” he added, raising his glass in her direction when she frowned at him. “You know I’m talking about 2-D. I’ll reserve the right to insult him until my dying day, but I won’t fool myself and neither should you. His filter might be shot to Hell, but he’s not stupid. His mind wanders and it takes time for him to absorb new things, but that’s not stupid. That’s slow. There’s a difference.”

“Why do you think I think so?” she said. “He has many talents. People can be stupid about some things and smart about others.”

Murdoc scowled.

“Don’t give _me_ a song and dance about definitions like you think _I’m_ an idiot. You know exactly what I mean. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t need to be so bloody precise about it. Or bloody vague. How many things is ‘some’ things, then? Nine out of ten? Nintey-nine point nine-nine-nine percent?”

Murdoc glared at her shrewdly as she buried her thoughts in a drink of juice.

“Did you tell him something similar, love? Because he’s locked up by himself, now, with a lot of time on his hands. Time to think of all the things he’s had to cast aside just to navigate through the day. That’s why, if you want to direct him, you have to talk fast. Keep the narrative smooth so he knows it’s all linked together and you’re not leaving anything behind, but get to what you want _fast_. He’ll retain the last thing you say and drop the rest because, if it’s the most recent, it’s the most important, right? And there’s no time to think of the rest. But, given time, he’ll come back to it. And if he comes back to it, he’ll know that ‘stupid about some things’ is still bloody stupid.

“Fortunately,” Murdoc added, grinning, “for me, of course, not so much for him, he’s got a cracked skull, so he can’t retain too much and not indefinitely. But he’ll hang on to what’s important. And _you’re_ important, however you feel about that, so he’ll keep track of how you think. Say what you like about me, but at least I _know_ I’m using him. He knows it, too. That I’m using him and that I know I’m using him, but what’s he gonna do? He’s got no ambition of his own – never did, as far as I know – so he paid the price of admission and chained his cart to mine. It took him some good, long thinking to figure it out, but he does know I’m using him. I can’t help but wonder how he’ll feel about you doing the same.”

She felt the fury rising through her, indignant anger that clenched her jaw so tightly, she had to force herself to loosen it simply to speak.

“I would never—“

“You are,” Murdoc insisted, but gently, a tone of voice reserved for her alone. “It’s in the way you talk about him. You told me I ‘can’ be soft with him. I ‘can’ be gentle. Not that I should be soft or ought to be gentle because 2-D needs me to be. ‘Can’. Like I would be doing myself a favour.”

Into her fury rose a deepening sense of shame. She had never intended such a thing. She had only wanted to take care of him, her big brother, sweet and gentle and fragile and strange…

Who allowed her to be soft when memories told her to be hard. Who allowed her to be warm when training told her to be cold. In whom she would not permit the rough, the unpleasant, or the awkward and ill-fitting attitudes that were the growing pains of maturity because she did not like them. Even discounting the fact that Murdoc was speaking in extremes, she could not say that her actions were entirely altruistic. In that light…

“Hey, I get it,” Murdoc continued, interrupting her thoughts. “The soldier girl doesn’t want to always be a soldier girl. Nothing wrong with that. I’m not even saying you’re doing it on purpose. Hell, if I thought you knew, I wouldn’t bring it up. But not knowing makes it worse, in a way. It’s disrespectful. And worse for him, ‘cause I know that’s a bigger concern for you than for me. It’ll eat at his insecurities. Do you think he’s too stupid to manage on his own? Do you think he’s too stupid to notice? Is he actually stupid because he didn’t notice it sooner? He doesn’t mind being used, love. He likes to be useful. But no one likes being played with. Go in there knowing what you’re about, so you can answer the tricky questions honestly when they come up.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” she said, heart aching, hurt and raw.

“Because I need someone to keep him built up, love,” Murdoc said. “It was easy for you when you were ten. You were cute and unaffected and everyone’s darling. Now you’re cute and everyone’s darling, but you’re growing up and learning deception.” He shrugged. “Even if it’s mainly self-deception. That isn’t going to fly. 2-D might be a slow thinker, but he feels fast and hard. He isn’t cold, practical, and analytical like we are. He can’t just drop what he’s feeling to think. He’s got to wade through an ocean of sentiment. Slow work when it comes to learning, but fast when it comes to attitude. If you’re messing with him, he’ll feel it long before he thinks of it. It’s easier if you’re honest with him about your motivations. Then he doesn’t have to balance the way you treat him against the words you use while doing it.”

She frowned.

“You want to use me so that you can continue to use him?”

“I use everyone, love,” Murdoc said, “but, as I said, I also like you. A sappier person might even say I love you like family, but the dynamic in my family has never been good. You’re safer with the ‘like’. I might use you, but I won’t play games with you, and you’ll get the privilege of special favours for being the person closest to my heart. You can indulge in all the sweetness and light that you want, and spill it all over 2-D, if that’s your fancy. You might even bump up his production. There’s a reason he’s good with lyrics and song writing and that’s ‘cause he can lock himself up somewhere to have a good long think about it while soaking in all his sentiments, and then vomit the whole mess up so that it comes out meaning something… after it’s been prefaced by a lot of godawful screeching on his toy _du jour_ , of course. A little sweetness and light in the mix never hurts.”

“If you wanted him to be happy, you shouldn’t have chased Janice away,” she told him, lashing out with the one weapon she could find.

“I won’t argue with you about another man’s relationships,” Murdoc said, “but, if you want to go putting your nose in it, look at your best-case scenario: Can you really see 2-D married and a father?”

She bit her lip.

Of course she could not imagine such a thing. She had told 2-D as much herself. And would it have been fair to drag Janice along with the band if _she_ had wanted children? And if she had not, what about her own life? And if she consented to stay behind while the band was on tour, what about the rest? Late nights, recording, time spent writing and testing and refining. 2-D would still have to choose. Had chosen. Even if it hurt.

“Yeah, me neither,” Murdoc said. “And that assumes she doesn’t piss off somewhere and make her next contact through a lawyer. Still, no call going after kiddies like that. I might even tell him so. Not so much that I’m sorry about it, but, you know, that I’m aware it was out of bounds. Try not to let that happen again.”

It was an admission Murdoc was never forced to make. When 2-D did not come down for tea, she went looking for him. He was not in his room, or in the studio, or any of the bathrooms, or the cinema. He did not seem to be in the building at all.

It was not until she returned to her own room that she found the folded letter on her bed. In it, 2-D said there was something he needed to do before he could work on the album again and that he would be gone for a couple of days. Maybe three. He left no address or other means of contact. Although he owned a cell phone, he typically forgot it and, indeed, she found it lying on his floor under an unwashed pair of jeans. Security tapes showed him exiting the building that afternoon, carrying a rucksack. Where he had gone from there remained a mystery.

She had not even seen him leave.


	8. Chapter 8

Rain poured down in apocalyptic sheets, clouds blackening the sky and turning the gravestones and piles of refuse around Kong Studios into ominous shadows.

She had no fear of them, of course, even though she was alone. Her fears were reserved for the rest of her bandmates, who were not at home.

Russel was fine, she knew. He had left on the morning of 2-D’s disappearance to stay with friends in Soho, both a vacation for himself and a promotional opportunity for the album. He did not hear of the incident until he called later that night to make sure she was not being driven mad, trapped in a building with Murdoc and 2-D. She could have told him many things about _that_ , given how her day had gone, but she only relayed the information that 2-D had run off and shared the contents of his note. She begged him not to give up his time away to come running home, especially since 2-D appeared to have a plan in mind. Russel agreed, if only because he would be touring a number of record shops around London and had friends who could keep an eye out in case 2-D came into the city. He checked in regularly and threatened to return if 2-D did not surface by the stipulated time.

That meant tomorrow, allowing for a full three days. She rather hoped they would hear from 2-D before then. Without any further contact or any idea where he might have gone, she worried. She knew he had not returned to his parents’ house because she had called them herself at Murdoc’s insistence. He felt they would only hang up if they heard his voice on the other end.

Or else blame him and call the police on attempted murder charges.

She explained to them, as pleasantly as possible, that 2-D had not _disappeared_ per se, that he would be back in a few days, but, scatterbrained as he could be, he had neglected to leave her any contact information and, she lied, there were some album details she had hoped to work out with him. No, nothing urgent, but it was always best to get these things done as soon as possible. She was going to wait until he got back, but had hit on the inspiration that he might have gone home for a visit and, since the discussion could easily be had on the phone, she thought she would take the chance. No, he had forgotten his cell phone. He often did. No worries, she would wait until he got back. If he did stop in, please have him call.

Murdoc had cursed the air blue, grabbed his own phone, and headed out to search the general area by vehicle, commanding her to stay behind and call him if 2-D returned or got in touch with her in any way. He stayed out for hours and, while she could not be certain that he searched as diligently as he claimed, he returned sober and in no better mood than before. He even tried calling the police, who pointed out that an adult male leaving a definite time of return could not rightly be considered “missing” even if he, Murdoc, did not know precisely where he was. Murdoc argued that 2-D had recently sustained an injury – although he did not mention that he was the one who inflicted it – might be in a depressive state, and required medication that he might or might not have with him, at which point he was told to call again if 2-D did not return at the appointed time. They simply did not have the manpower to seek out adults who willingly left home with every indication that they planned to return.

“Bloody tossers, the lot of them,” Murdoc had spat and slunk off to drink himself to sleep, only to haul himself up in the morning and go out again. He claimed to know a few people who could post a look-out. How hard could it be to find 2-D, Murdoc reasoned, when he was six-foot two with blue hair and double hyphema?

Hard enough, it seemed. Neither Murdoc nor his mysterious contacts had been able to find 2-D in spite of repeated outings. The rain had already begun to fall the last time Murdoc had called her and she had told him that, if he was in a safe place, he should stay there. She would be fine alone and preferred it to worrying about his driving around in conditions that rendered visibility near zero.

She was both pleased by and regretting her decision. While she hoped Murdoc was some place safe, she felt isolated by the heavy rainfall. The barest flicker of lightening could also be seen on the horizon, promising a terrible storm and possible power outage. She could handle a power outage under normal circumstances – she was not afraid of the dark – but a lack of electricity meant a lack of distractions and more time to fret over where 2-D had gone to, what he was doing, whether he was safe, whether he was eating, whether he had medication, and so on and so on.

She had slept in his empty bed the first night and that helped a little. It smelled like him in a way she could not quite define. Like all the smells of him blended together. Cigarettes and pot. Soap and sweat. Chocolate, butterscotch, and mint… sugary things.

It had helped a little, but she had told herself that it was childish and returned to her own room the second night, at least until nightmares woke her and the sound of Murdoc’s cursing drifted through the studio, telling her 2-D had not been found.

She had relocated then and spent the rest of the night in 2-D’s bed, wishing him home. Now, with Murdoc gone as well, she suspected she would do the same. Take to 2-D’s bed and huddle there, wondering what had become of him.

The sound of a service door opening and closing startled her from her thoughts and seized her heart with fright. She relaxed a little, thinking that Murdoc must have come home after all, but tensed again when she realized that the noise had come from the wrong end of the building. Murdoc would have parked the car in the garage and, even if she had not heard the garage door open and close, he would have entered the building from that side. The sound had come from the opposite end, where a ramp led down to a loading bay and stairs led up to a utility door on the ground floor. It was the one they often used coming in from the street when the main doors of the building were locked and shuttered for the night.

Cautiously, she made her way toward the sound, grabbing a machete – one of the many weapons they had left scattered around the Kong Studios since she had driven off the undead – from the wall as she passed.

Stepping into the corridor leading to the service area, she was surprised by a shock of blue at the other end.

“Toochi!” she cried, dropping her weapon and running down the corridor to meet him. Angry demands to know where he had been bubbled up within her, but were swept away in the flood of her relief to see him alive. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, her momentum knocking them both back against the door behind him.

He was soaked through, his clothing so wet that the rain began to seep into hers as she clung to him, feeling him shiver with cold, unable to let him go.

“Miss me, pun’kin?” he said, aiming for jovial, but missing by a mile, his voice strained and tired.

“Where were you?” she demanded, finally letting him go and stepping away, her concerns at war with her practicality, wanting to beg him for answers, wanting to get him inside and warmed up. “I was worried! You need to get changed.”

“Sorry… Sorry,” he said, distracted, unfocused. He reached out to ruffle her hair, the action stiff and awkward, not as comforting as it usually was. “Need a sec, a’right? Need… just a sec.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Let me take your bag.”

2-D touched the strap of the rucksack he had thrown over his shoulder as though he had forgotten it existed in spite of its weight causing him to list to one side. Tentatively, he removed it and passed it on to her. Soaked through as much as its owner, the bag was somewhat heavy, but not unbearably so, and she slung it across her chest before falling in beside him on his way to his bedroom.

He moved slowly, carefully, as if his body were made of glass, hugging himself and trying his hardest not to bump into anything, but failing often, too disoriented – or, perhaps, too exhausted – to hold a straight path. He winced every time and it tugged at Noodle’s memories. He moved like he hurt from the inside out – his stomach cramped, his limbs stiff and sore – and she recalled having seen him that way at least once before, tinkering with electronics, needing her tiny fingers to hold and fasten things because his hands shook so badly he could barely grip his tools. She remembered the frightening waves of his despair when he realized he could not go on any longer without taking the strongest and most terrible pills at his disposal.

Only then did she realize that 2-D trembled from more than the cold. He was suffering the early stages of withdrawal.

“Did you not bring any medicine?” she prompted when they arrived at his room.

“Ran out,” he told her.

“Do you have any left here?”

“Yeah.” He fumbled at the drawer of his night stand, unable to grasp the handle.

“Let me,” she said, brushing his hands away. “You take your wet clothes off.”

She rummaged through the drawer, gathering up every bottle she could find and holding them up one at a time as 2-D struggled out of his jacket and shirt, signalling those that he wanted. She had doubts about his taking them all at once, but worried his state would deteriorate to the point of needing something stronger, so she counted them out, checking the labels as she went, somewhat comforted to know that two of them were comparatively mild and intended to deal with side-effects. She disappeared into his bathroom to get a glass of water and returned to find him sitting hunched up on the edge of his bed. He had managed to change into track pants, the seams askew, as though he had experienced difficulty pulling them on. Given the circumstances, this was probably so and she felt a bit bad that he had likely only bothered because she was in the room.

“Suh-Sorry,” he stammered, swallowing the pills as soon as they were handed to him, chasing them with water. “Shun’ta thought I could ever take care’a someone. Can’t hardly take care’a myself. Couldn’t even take care’a you when you were little and you mostly took care’a yourself already.”

“You always took care of me,” she said. And he had. Not like Russel did, with his formal education, instructions, and rules. Not even like Murdoc did, with his random, unorthodox, and legally questionable life lessons. He was simply always there. He was good mornin’, pun’kin, and are you hungry, luv? More juice? A cookie? Are ya feelin’ a’right, luv? Wanna sing with me? Wanna dance? Watch a movie? Make some music? You’re learnin’ so quick… Let’s go show Russ an’ Murdoc!

He was tinkering and playfulness, her fashion critic – always enthusiastic, knowing her taste was better than his – and her hair stylist. He listened to her chatter, even in Japanese, even if he did not understand, but kind of did anyway by the tone of her voice. He asked if she was all right, checked that she was safe, looked in on her at night. Even if he was high, even if he was ill, even if there was nothing he could practically do for her, he was there. And if he was exhausted, or in pain and needed to sleep, he was still nice to cuddle with. He appreciated her warmth and never chased her away.

Sure, she had taken care of herself just fine, but she could only do it because she had a safety net. They were, all three of them, there for her, but 2-D was the flow and melody of her life, the clumsy reflection of a loving family home.

She wished she knew how to tell him as much, but words seemed inadequate for such feelings.

“You… You always took care of me,” she repeated instead, taking the glass from him – brushing his fingers as she did so – and setting it on the nightstand. “You should wrap up in a blanket. You still feel very cold.”

A shuddery laugh escaped 2-D as he rubbed his eyes with one hand and groped behind him on the bed for the coverlet. She helped him gather it up and settled it around his shoulders.

“I’s a good joke, that,” he said, clasping it around him. “Din’t even think of a bloody blanket. Can’t even manage that much.”

“You aren’t well,” she told him, although his mood frightened her a little. “No one can be everything all the time. Less so if they are feeling sick and cold.”

2-D huddled in his blanket, head bowed, although she could still see the furrow in his brow. She worried, shifting her weight from foot to foot for a few seconds before crouching down and attempting to look up at him from her lower vantage point.

“What happened?” she said, putting a hand over his. “Where did you go? We were all worried…”

2-D only shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said.

“Did you go and visit Janice?”

Pain flittered across 2-D’s face, different than the pain of his symptoms. He lifted his head a little to look her directly in the eye and raised one finger to his lips.

“No. I’s a secret,” he whispered.

“There is no need to keep secrets from me,” she said, feeling more than a little hurt that 2-D would do so. “You can trust me.”

“Not _from_ you,” he told her. “For _me_. I… I’ll be wha’ever you want, but I need something for me. Dun you have things that are just yours? In your head, like? That are too good or too bad to share?”

The ghosts of frightened children rose in her, their increasing uncertainty and agitation as each one went into the medical bay and did not return. The incessant training, information sometimes downloaded directly into her brain, gnawing at her, telling her feelings were a waste. The knowledge that she was a made thing, built as surely as a creature of circuits and metal.

The band knew something of her original purpose, but there were many things she would never share, not because her bandmates were untrustworthy, but simply because they were personal. Private thoughts for which no words existed.

She felt a sting in her eyes in spite of her efforts to tamp down her fear and grief, and then 2-D was gathering her up in a hug.

“Yeah, they feel like that,” he said, straightening, pulling her back up to her feet, his broad palms against her back the most secure feeling in the world.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed him to draw her in, leaning up against him. She did not cry, exactly, but she permitted her past a few sniffles as she buried her face in the crook of 2-D’s neck, feeling a little like a child again, when he would pick her up and carry her in his arms.

“All I want is for you to be you,” she said when she tired of her memories and the way they grated inside. “I’m sorry if I have made you think differently. Will you at least tell me if the place you went was safe?”

“Very safe, pun’kin.”

“No one made you stop taking medicine or made you stand in the rain?”

“No, luv. I’s my own fault, that.”

“Okay,” she said. “Are you feeling a little bit better? Will you get a bad headache?”

“Nuh. Just the regular ones. I’s not so bad now,” 2-D assured her, “but maybe I’ll lie down a bit, if i’s a’right.”

She told him that was fine. He had warmed considerably since she had brought him medicine, but she advised him to use extra blankets all the same and helped him get settled to her satisfaction. 2-D smiled at her wearily and teased her for being fussy, but did as he was told. She drew the curtains before she left the room, even though the clouds and rain blotted out most of the light, and slipped quietly out the door.

She then called Murdoc and Russel to let them know 2-D was back. She implored Murdoc to stay where he was until the storm cleared, telling him she was concerned for his safety although she also worried about his temper. He had cursed up a storm when she told him 2-D had wandered back on his own and she felt that a short time-out would not be remiss.

Duty done, she found herself at a loss. She tried to watch television, and then some movies, and then tried listening to music, but felt restless and unsettled. She had thought she had matured a lot during her time in Japan. The acceptance of her returned memories and the past they revealed had been a difficult experience, but also one of growth and personal fortitude. She had not expected her return to England to be fraught with emotional obstacles.

She loved her bandmates. They were the only real family she knew. She loved them, but their troubles only reminded her of how young she still was, how little practical experience she had with handling emotions. Her love of them warred with her early training and clashed with the hurt that was slowly growing within her. It was difficult to see the people upon whom she had once depended as weak and fragile as any other. As weak and fragile as herself.

2-D wandered into the room just as she thought she should go and check on him. She chalked it up to coincidence although it was strange how he seemed attuned to her feelings. Perhaps it went both ways. She stood up, just knowing – even as she asked him whether he wanted to eat – that he was hungry, but not very, and needed some busywork. She suggested curry, which made him smile, though not all the way, and they prepared it together, giving him something to do with his hands. They got a little creative in an effort to rid the fridge of leftovers before they went bad and the end results were passable, which was all she could ask for.

They spoke little as they cooked, ate, and cleaned up, but the silence was not an uncomfortable one. Afterward, 2-D decided he wanted to tinker a bit in his workshop. She supposed that fixing things and making new ones from discarded parts helped counteract feelings of failure and worthlessness. She thought the feelings unfounded, but she was not 2-D.

She followed him to watch him work and tried to express the fascination she felt when she did so. It made 2-D smile a little and he started explaining some of what he was doing, although he admitted that a lot of it was instinct. He let her help where she could and they tinkered until 2-D’s energy petered out and they opted to finish the evening with a movie instead.

They pulled out the sofa, much like old times, built a nest of pillows and blankets and huddled together against the wind and rain, watching a deeply discounted horror movie worth more for its comedic potential than any fright it might try to deal out. In spite of the movie’s humour value, 2-D started yawning two-thirds of the way through. By the time the power went out, he had dozed off. Rather than wake him, she covered him up and debated returning to her room. In the end, however, she curled up beside him, still somewhat concerned about his mood and loathe to let him out of her sight.

She woke to sunlight and the sound of Murdoc cursing in the hallway. She tossed her blanket aside and ran out to meet him. His vicious language stopped immediately and he offered her a charming smile.

“Hello, love,” he said. “Is my bastard singer in that room perchance?”

She eyed him sceptically. “Why?”

“So, yes,” Murdoc reasoned. “Do me a favour, then, would you, love? Put some coffee on. Tea if you want it. 2-D and I need to chat.”

“Please, leave him be,” she pleaded. “He has not been well.”

Murdoc patted her shoulder.

“Now, now… I just want to talk. My singer pisses off in the middle of recording an album, I feel I deserve some sort of explanation.”

And, with that, he left her standing in the corridor and stepped into the den.

“Oi! Wanker!” Murdoc snarled as she abandoned her duty and peeked around the door frame. He grabbed a pillow and thumped 2-D over the head with it. “Get your arse up, tosser, before I haul it up for you.”

She waited as 2-D curled up, uttering sleepy noises of protest, not quite daring to make her presence known until she felt it was necessary. Murdoc did not hit 2-D again, with the pillow or otherwise, but did prod him physically and verbally until he sat up, blinking and rubbing at his eyes.

“Two days, Dents,” Murdoc snarled. “Two days I’ve been out looking for you in the arse-end of nowhere.”

“Din’t have to,” 2-D mumbled. “I left a note.”

“A note? Sod off. You left fuck-all,” Murdoc said, his voice gravel and steel. “We’re in the middle of an album.”

“Russ went away a few days…”

“Russel’s not my bloody singer, is he?”

2-D hunched up, ashamed and fearful, braced for a blow.

“Won’t happen again,” he murmured. “Promise.”

“Fuck ‘again’. Where in Satan’s arsehole were you off to _this_ time?”

2-D shook his head, unwilling to respond.

“I’m not hearing an answer, Stuart.”

2-D flinched a little at the sound of his given name, but bit his lip and shook his head again. Whatever secret he had not wanted to share with her must be important, she thought. Murdoc seldom called 2-D “Stu”, let alone “Stuart”. The former was a mockery of affection, but the latter indicated a rapid loss of patience.

“I’m going to ask one more…”

“No,” 2-D said. “I’s none’a your business.”

“What?”

Murdoc’s tone was not angry or threatening. Instead it dropped low and ran cold, vicious in its dead calm.

“I had something to do,” 2-D said, carefully, deliberately. “For me. I had to go for me. I’m back now, like I said.”

“Don’t think you can keep secrets from me, Stuart—“

“No!”

2-D sprang to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height of six-foot-two, ramrod straight, no slouching, using every inch to his advantage as he loomed over Murdoc. A fury she had never seen before contorted his features, overriding the fragility of his painful thinness, changing skin and bone to cables and steel.

“I said no!” 2-D snarled. “I’s not about _you_. I’s not a secret from _you_. I’s for _me_. An’ I dun have to tell you!”

She could not see Murdoc’s face, but could tell from his stance that he stood stiffly, surprised – if not outright alarmed – by 2-D’s reaction. Fortunately for him, 2-D’s anger had already begun to drain away, his stance easing, slumping back, although a determination remained in the set of his jaw. In time, Murdoc began to relax and she thought he would take advantage of 2-D’s weariness, but he only jammed his thumbs into his pockets.

“Is that so?” Murdoc said.

“Yeah,” 2-D said, and then seemed to realize the enormity of what he had done. He shrank back and sat down heavily on the bed. “Sorry.”

Murdoc stood silently, drawing out the moment as 2-D grew more and more anxious, hunching up and twisting his fingers together, although the set of his jaw never loosened. In time, Murdoc sighed and reached out. 2-D flinched, but Murdoc only ran his fingers through 2-D’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. 2-D’s eyes closed in bliss and his body began to relax in spite of himself, but instead of pushing his advantage, Murdoc merely sat down beside him and moved to massaging the base of 2-D’s neck.

“You didn’t run off to see one of those mad bints again, did you?” he said, pulling out a package of cigarettes and shaking two toward the opening.

2-D only hung his head and said nothing. Murdoc sighed.

He put the cigarettes in his mouth, stashed the package, lit both, and passed one to 2-D, who accepted it cautiously and took a drag.

“You should know better, Dents,” Murdoc said. “If they’d wanted to see you, they’d have answered the first time. Or at least talked to you themselves. Running off’s no good, mate. You’ve got health problems. If you run off without telling people where you’re going, they’ll worry. And in the middle of an album yet! Not fair to the rest of the band. Not at all. Russel made arrangements ahead of time. You just disappearing puts a kink in it.”

“Sorry,” 2-D said, blowing smoke out in a long, sad sigh.

“You promise not to piss off again without talking to us?” Murdoc said, moving from the base of 2-D’s neck back up to his scalp.

“Yeah,” 2-D said quietly, taking a chance and leaning against Murdoc, soaking up the soothing attention. “I won’t go away again.”

“There’s my lad,” Murdoc said, stroking 2-D’s hair, across his shoulders, and down his back.

She withdrew then, not naive enough to believe Murdoc was unaware of her eavesdropping, but heading for the kitchen to put water on all the same. She could not decide whether Murdoc’s sudden show of patience was for her benefit, to lull 2-D into a false sense of security, or to distract 2-D from his minor victory. No matter his intent, she felt certain that Murdoc would never draw 2-D’s secret from him.

Whatever errand had driven 2-D to leave, it had claws.

 

 

The band refined the album and organized video shoots without further incident.

Murdoc remained surprisingly good-tempered – which was to say that he only growled, insulted, and inflicted mild physical abuses – and she could not decide if he felt pity for 2-D or was simply satisfied with his restored dominion over 2-D’s life. 2-D, for his part, did not run off again and remained docile in attitude, but never recovered his full energy or optimism. He smiled, laughed, and made jokes – sometimes even with that flash of devilry she had begun to look for – but his good humour never seemed complete, seldom reaching his eyes. Even spending time with her, practising, singing, or simply watching movies – things he normally enjoyed – did not alleviate his aura of sadness and any excitement he exhibited felt flat. She even missed the smug cockiness she had once despised. It had been obnoxious, but had spoken of emerging confidence, of life.

Russel listened to her concerns with sympathy, but was of the opinion that there was little either of them could do. Which was not to say she should not try, of course, because she was important to them and her time and attention might yet sway Murdoc’s control or improve 2-D’s morale, but she should not be shocked or concerned if her efforts came to naught. Murdoc would not change until Murdoc wanted to change, nor would 2-D give up his devotion unless he chose to do so. Whatever small thing had filled him with righteous fury, it had either burned up its power or been banked to glow low and warm, a tiny core of fuel to make the rest of his life livable.

Reasonable, she thought, but the thinking made her tired, the effect worsening as time went on. She needed to get away – not for too long, just a small sabbatical – to process her feelings on the matter. She thought a few months of travel would do it. Travel that was not related to touring. Travel where she could walk ancient streets and gaze upon works of art, pausing in cafes for coffee and pastries while recording her adventures in letters to her bandmates. She needed time away from their presence, but not their hearts.

She took these plans to Murdoc, of all people. She knew, in all honesty, that as slack as he might be around the studio, he was the only one among them capable of making “arrangements” that justified the use of air quotes. He told her he understood, lied and said he would want to ditch the band for greener pastures as well, if only for a little while, and said “arrangements” would be made. He even suggested a way to have her disappear handily enough to throw any paparazzi off her trail – something she might want to consider if she were taking the bulk of the credit for the new album.

He told her about Jimmy Manson.

They plotted out the _El Mañana_ video together, one that took full advantage of undisclosed details about her past. Everyone who was no one would presume she was dead and, with a little make-over magic, she could quietly slip away, putting some distance between herself and the celebrity rags before it was revealed that she had been rescued and was fine, merely researching for the next album, yadda yadda yadda… if she wanted them to know that she had survived at all.

She thought they should let 2-D and Russel in on their plans, but Murdoc refused on the grounds that a secret was harder to keep the more people knew about it and promised to tell them once she was well away and there was no chance of her being caught in her daring escape. She made him swear on everything she could think of that he held dear that he would not let them worry about her needlessly or hurt themselves in an unnecessary rescue.

She made him swear it on her own life.

Once the project was outlined, the tours were over, the interviews had petered out, and the props were in place, the cameras rolled for the _El Mañana_ video shoot.

It did not go as planned.


	9. Chapter 9

She was flame and she was rage.

The set was wrong. The shoot was wrong. The helicopters were wrong. The timing was wrong. The escape was wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong… an incessant alarm as she breathed smoke and fumes and dust and pain.

And when she clawed her way out of the (wrong) canyon in the (wrong) landscape near the (wrong) road to the (wrong) place, she barely knew herself or where she was or what to do, her recovery at the (wrong) shelter made slow by her confusion at the (wrong) information and the lack of rescue—

Because she was supposed to be (dead dead dead) in hiding and why would anyone look for her?

But _he_ should have known. He he he who had the contact numbers. He he he who knew.

What then? Why then? How?

And when she clawed her way back to the studio (wrong) where lay nothing but a smoking heap (wrong!), waste and rubble (Wrong!), infested with the undead, demons, and night spirits ( _Wrong!_ ) and the greasy black smoke that resolved itself into harbingers of doom and of destruction ( _Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_ ), she braved the pit and fought her way to the place where the recording booth used to be, cobbled together a radio made of shattered and broken things and broadcast across the bands her warning to anyone… anyone… anyone who would hear.

But most especially her bandmates. Please, let them hear.

And every day they came for her and every day she fought and every day they brought her just a little closer to the pit, the devil’s door, the hellmouth, and every day she made her way back to the radio and every day she broadcast and every day her hopes dimmed just a little more and every day…

She had to sleep sometime.

And when she clawed her way out of the pit and seeded her path with salt and built a fortress of the rubble that remained and holed herself away with her radio – broadcast and receiver – leaving during the day only long enough to venture for food, returning always to the shattered earth that was both a place of danger and of power, she began to listen.

She broadcast still, but mostly she listened, dialling through the frequencies until…

“—many ways. Uh… you’re listening to me, Murdoc Niccals and—“

She took note of the frequency, wondering if he would listen if she broadcast along it, knowing he would not.

But then, a name.

Point Nemo.

And a place.

48 degrees south and 123 degrees west.

A name. A place. And rage.

She ventured from her shelter then, collecting the things she would need. A little at a time. A day at a time. An outfit at a time. A weapon at a time. A dollar at a time. A connection at a time. Listening, always listening for more drunken broadcasts, pitiful and lost.

And there were more, and there were more.

He thought of her, which eased her heart, but not for long. He had replaced her. Had he replaced them all? And then…

“—trapped in an island, forced to record—“

And she listened in silent horror.

She chased the black and roiling clouds across the world, across the seas. She was flame and she was rage and she spoke with the roar of a gun, making her way slowly, inexorably, to the name, to the place, by plane, by boat, by raft, alone, adrift, abandoned.

Amazingly, she found Russel. Or, perhaps, Russel found her. It mattered little. They travelled together, the giant and the soldier. And, for a while, the flame abated, banked in coals deep within her.

They chased the black and roiling clouds across the sea to the great pink column of trash and vice. To the war of the dead and the hellbent. To the point of forgotten screams. And she spoke with the roar of a gun. And he spoke with the roar of the sea. And they spoke in the company of many, venturing forth from the questionable safety of the artificial island.

She saw Murdoc for the first time in years. Saw what he had made of her. Her heart swelled with pity. Her heart screamed in pain. Her heart was in flames, a fire that could never die.

Unless…

Unless…

Below, Russel told her, with the deep sea things. The sharks, the squids, the whales.

As in icebergs, as in all things, so much lay hidden beneath the surface.

But the fog arose and the helicopters came, the planes dove in and the demons set forth, the sea caught fire and the island split apart.

The world crashed down and her heart was torn asunder.

Russel sheltered her, took her down beneath the waves. She caught the briefest sight of colourful submarines. Of coral pinks and seaweed green.

Of bright and azure blue.

And everything was gone.

Russel carried her in his mouth until the air had cleared. Away from the fighting. Away from the war. Away from the splintering, plastic beach. He did so carefully and cautiously, ever the gentle caretaker and, when the sea was quiet and calm, he took her in his hands, each of them a vessel, and told her how he had wept for her. How 2-D had wept for her. How even Murdoc had wept for her once he realized that everything was wrong.

He missed her as she had missed him and they crossed the ocean together, she atop his head. Sometimes they spoke of earlier times and sometimes they travelled in comfortable silence, but she never spoke of her journeys, nor he of his. They remained at peace together and she tamped down the rage and flame, burying it deep in festering soil, for they were creatures of calm and quiet and Russel never said the things you didn’t say.

And then the great boats came and blood stained the water and she was swept away into the dark, into the deep…


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Due to a dissatisfying amount of lore in Phase 4, the author has taken it upon themselves to seize a number of random comments, half-jokes, and speculations and indulge in a wild spate of world building for both Shits and Giggles. (Also to fake a viable conclusion.)

She saw the taxi coming around the corner from the upstairs window and nearly bowled Russel over in her rush to get down the stairs.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said as she flew past him and scrambled around for shoes that would not take an hour to lace or buckle. “Is it the ice cream truck?”

“Taxi!” she told him, abandoning her quest for footwear and launching herself at the front door.

“I thought the last three disappointments would have calmed you down,” Russel said, smiling, but she could not answer him. She had already burst through the door, leapt over the stairs of the rented row house, and started running down the walk in her bare feet.

The taxi – which she had realistically expected to have driven by without slowing – had pulled over and ejected its passenger onto the pavement. She adjusted her trajectory accordingly and barrelled into him.

“TOOCHI!” she cried, throwing her arms around his chest, unable to curb her enthusiasm although she half-expected the weight of her to crush him and knock them both against the taxi door.

It was like hitting a tree. He swayed back a little, but remained rooted to the spot.

“Heya, pun’kin,” 2-D said, grinning and dropping his arms around her shoulders.

“Toochi!” she gasped, running her hands up and down his back. “Who on earth has been feeding you?”

“I dunno what you mean…”

2-D was still lean – very much so – but where she would have once felt the outline of his bones beneath his skin, even through his shirt, his body was smooth and solid.

“Don’t know… Toochi! What is this?” she demanded, running her hands up his back, feeling the dent of his spine, but not its ridges.

“What is this?” she repeated, running her hands over his ribs, just comfortably perceptible, down his belly, and over his… hips? 

“What is _this_?” she teased, briefly slapping a bottom that actually had enough meat to be slapped. “You’ve put on weight!”

“Ah. Uh. Well…” 2-D stammered, blushing furiously. “I’s… uh…”

“It looks good,” she told him. And it did. The clothing he wore, threadbare as it was, disguised his silhouette at first, but it was impossible not to see it after running into it full tilt. “You could stand to gain a bit more.” She caught him up in another hug. “I missed you so much. I thought you were dead…”

“I… I missed you too, pun’kin,” 2-D told her, hugging her back, his voice thick with gathering tears. “I thought you were dead too… For a long time I thought it, even if I din’t believe myself.”

The clearing of a throat interrupted their moment and she looked up to see the taxi driver holding out a bag and asking about the fare. 2-D looked sheepish and a little bit panicked.

“Really?” she sighed, pulling away. “Did Murdoc hire you a car without paying them? Murdoc!” she hollered back at the house.

In truth, she was not entirely surprised that Murdoc would leave 2-D with the tab or very hopeful that he would show up and rectify the matter. She checked her pockets in case she had shoved some money into one of them, but was rescued by Russel, who waved her off. He paid off the driver while she grabbed 2-D’s bag – surprisingly light for his time away – and 2-D looked largely uncomfortable by the whole affair.

“Thanks, Russ,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it, D,” Russel said, clapping him on the back. “It’s good to see ya, man.”

“I’s good to see you, too.”

More tactile than Russel, 2-D responded to his encouragement with a hug, which Russel accepted with good, if somewhat embarrassed, grace, hugging him lightly in return.

“Aight, now,” Russel told him. “Dial it back. I’m not Noodle. Pay her some attention before she climbs you like a koala. She’s been freakin’ out over every taxi that comes down the street.”

“Russel is lying,” she told 2-D, looping her arm through his. “I’ve been freaking out since I found out you were fine and living in Mexico.”

Russel grinned. “She’s been driving Murdoc straight up the wall.”

As if summoned by his name – in a context that did not involve his spending money – Murdoc appeared in the doorway and oiled his way down the walk. 2-D shrank back a little, almost stumbling into the street where the taxi had once been. If it were possible, she thought he might have leapt right back into the vehicle to keep the door between him and possible doom.

“So,” Murdoc said, looking 2-D over, “you’re back.”

“Hello, Murdoc,” 2-D replied, almost shyly. He seemed unable to decide exactly how to react.

“We’ve got a place upstairs for ya, D,” Russel said, breaking the tension by squeezing 2-D’s shoulder, and then making his way back up the walk.

“What he said.” Murdoc nodded his head in Russel’s direction, looking irritated, as though he had wished to impart that information himself. “Toss your bags and clean up. We got food coming. Although, by the look of you, I should double the order. Well?”

2-D smiled, nervous and uncertain.

“Thanks,” he said. “For the room. I’s… I’s good to see you…”

“Yeah, well… Don’t paw me like the others.”

Murdoc turned back toward the house, reaching into his back pocket for a package of cigarettes. 2-D watched him, head cocked, and she did not fathom what he was thinking until he drew himself up a little, as if verifying his height.

He cast her a mischievous grin, the look of the very devil.

No, she mouthed at him, delightfully horrified, but 2-D had already begun creeping up behind Murdoc, gauging his approach. When he judged himself close enough, he crouched, lunged forward, threw his arms around Murdoc’s chest, and pressed his cheek between Murdoc’s shoulder blades.

Murdoc growled incoherently and tried to swipe at 2-D, but 2-D’s positioning kept him out of Murdoc’s reach. Then, pulling up and tilting back simultaneously, 2-D hauled Murdoc clear off his feet.

“Missed you, too, Muds,” 2-D said, grinning and squeezing Murdoc tightly.

“Put me down, you bleedin’ tosser!” Murdoc yelped. He flailed wildly, forcing 2-D to simply drop him.

Murdoc landed awkwardly on his feet and stumbled away a few steps before straightening up and shaking himself off, acting as though nothing had happened. He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and breathed in deeply.

“Try that again,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “and I’ll feed your giblets to Noodle’s cat.”

And with that, Murdoc turned on his heel and stalked back into the house.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. 2-D just grinned at her, excessively proud of himself.

“Toochi! I hardly believe you dared!” she said once she could breathe again. “But I think he liked it, really.”

“Well, he din’t punch me,” 2-D allowed, “but he coulda offered me a fag or something. Bastard. You have a cat?”

“I do!” she said. “Katsu. I’ll introduce you, but first you should settle in. Murdoc rescued some things from Kong Studios before it… ah… went up in flames.”

She winked at 2-D who only shook his head, smiling both bitterly and nostalgically. He knew very well that Murdoc had burned the studio down for the insurance money.

He took his bag from her, although she insisted it was no trouble, and they started up the walk toward the house.

“Anyway,” she continued, “he managed to keep some of your old things although he said you shipped most of your stuff to your parents after… Well, after.”

“Yeah,” 2-D said. “Russ and I din’t wanna record anymore after you were gone. I mean, we stayed to look for you, but it was… I mean, after months and months we din’t think there was any chance anymore and, well… we din’t wanna stay around Murdoc. Kinda blamed him for ever’thing ‘cause it took him too long to tell us it was staged and then too long to realize it all cocked up. I had my stuff sent to my folks, visited, and then travelled some. Then… well…”

She smiled warmly as he trailed off, looking conflicted.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” she told him.

He smiled at her gratefully and all she could think of was how wonderful it was to see him again. And more so when he looked so well. A light tan gave him colour and she could see no bruises or abrasions apart from the normal discolouration around his eyes, an injury so old it was hardly worth noting any longer. He had a few more lines in his face, and a deeper furrow in his brow, but the weight he had gained and its distribution smoothed out the earliest signs of aging.

“I know,” 2-D told her as she led him into the house. “I know I can. I’s maybe just not the time right now. I mean, I know you’re okay ‘cause you’re here and I’d rather put my bag down, shower, change, use the toilet, see your cat…”

“Well one of those things is not quite like the others,” she said, grinning, and led him up to the room that had been set aside. “But I do think personal grooming is important after a long trip. I shipped myself back by FedEx for old time’s sake. Believe me, I stayed in the shower for three hours when I got out of _that_ crate.”

“You din’t!”

“I did! Both the FedEx and the shower. Although, from the look of your hair, it will take more than three hours.”

She reached up to weave her fingers into 2-D’s long, bushy mane. It looked like it had not been cut since she had last seen him. It was cleaner than it appeared, but ragged with split ends, and sprouted braids intermittently, tipped with beads, or sometimes tied off with coloured thread. They matched the woven bracelets that decorated his arms and the strings of wooden beads around his neck. On anyone else, she might have thought them pretentious, but they seemed natural on 2-D, as though they had grown there over time.

However, his ratty, stringy clothing, glassy with wear, was another matter entirely.

“I think Murdoc kept some of your old clothes,” she informed him. “They might have held up better than these.” She tugged the sleeve of his shirt and several threads came away from the edge. “They look like you’ve worn them every day for over a year!”

“I have,” he told her, cheerful and guileless. “Except when I was wearing the other ones ‘cause I had to wash these and hang ‘em up. And then I wore these and washed the other ones. Or sometimes someone else did it if there was other stuff to wash and I could trade a job, but mostly I did because I did the jobs.”

She wanted to ask him to clarify, but an insistent bing-bing-bing interrupted her thoughts. 2-D pulled a phone out of his pocket, checked it, turned off the alarm, and then rummaged through his bag until he pulled out a bottle.

“Sorry, luv,” he said sheepishly. “I gotta take this or I’ll be rubbish in an hour. Is there water?”

“Oh. Yes,” she said, startled by the organization of it. She pointed to the end of the hall. “We no longer have our own bathrooms. Sorry. Murdoc says we’ll find a bigger place soon. He was waiting for us all to be together.”

“I’s fine,” 2-D told her, grabbing the plastic cup from its holder by the sink and filling it from the faucet. He took two pills, chased them with water, and put the rest of the bottle on the small bedside table in his room.

“You look so… so good, I was nearly surprised to see you taking pills,” she said. “But I suppose such needs never really go away.”

2-D shook his head. He had seemed comfortable with the routine a moment ago, but now his cheeks flushed with shame.

“I… No,” he agreed. “I’s all proper stuff now though. They have newer stuff. I’s more effective, I guess. Not as many side effects. And i’s all the right stuff, too. Not some of the right stuff and some of the stuff I used when I couldn’t get the right stuff and stuff that somebody probably made in their toilet. An’ I dun need all the stuff for side effects, just some in the morning so I dun get queasy ‘cause I have to take the morning pills on an empty stomach, but they’re really harsh. And I got a proper schedule and all. I’m not always good at it and sometimes drink when I oughtn’t and smoke and… well… you know. But I’m better than I thought I’d be ‘cause it messes me up lots when I forget and it makes me not want to forget at all—“

She startled the rest of the litany into submission by catching 2-D up in a hug and doing her best to squeeze every bit of air from his lungs.

“Being on a schedule for medicine you need is _good_!” she told him, eyes stinging and heart full. “You look so _healthy_. It makes me happy!”

“I still get migraines,” he said when she let him breathe again, as if to downplay his successes. “The really bad ones. The pills for those mess ever’thing up.”

“But you know how to go back to your schedule after, yes?” she said. 2-D hesitated, and then nodded. “Then I’m still happy! Some things cannot be controlled or predicted.”

“Someone helped me,” he told her as if it mattered. “It wan’t just me.”

“Everyone needs help sometimes,” she told him. “I’m _proud_ of you and would like to hear all about it, if you want to tell me.”

This seemed to satisfy 2-D, who lit up with the personal pride he had cautiously tamped down.

“Maybe I could,” he said, “when we have more time and Murdoc and Russel aren’t waitin’ on us.”

When Murdoc and Russel are not around, she thought. Or Murdoc, at least.

“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll hold you do it. You clean up and get changed, and I’ll wait with the others downstairs. We have so much catching up to do!”

She left 2-D to his own devices and joined Murdoc and Russel in the kitchen. They ceased their arguing – and she knew they had been arguing because it was what they usually did when trapped in a room together – the moment she bounced through the door and took a seat at the table between them.

“Satisfied?” Russel said, grinning knowingly.

“Almost,” she told him and knew by the amused roll of his eyes that he understood. Russel had always understood, much better than herself and in spite of its unfairness to him, that 2-D was, by some small margin, her favourite. For all the time that she had spent crossing the ocean with Russel when he had reached gigantic proportions, she still felt a special bond with 2-D.

She had long since purged herself of the notion that she wanted to use 2-D for her own devices. Instilled by Murdoc, who generally saw the world through a filter of his own motivations, she could admit that 2-D had served as a home for all the soft and gentle feelings that the sudden revelations about her past tried to suppress, but it was hardly the only reason she cared about him. She now had Katsu, if she wished to be a soft and gentle caretaker, and it did not diminish her desire to be in 2-D’s presence. To sing with him. To dance with him. To compose. To watch horror movies. To hover in rapt fascination as he tinkered, breathing life into broken things…

“Some people say siblings just get closer as they get older,” Russel said, ignoring Murdoc’s snort of derision from across the table.

“You’re all brothers to me,” she reminded him, which did not discount his theory. She felt closer to all of them in many ways, even Murdoc, who did his best to pretend it was not so, but was a terrible liar.

“I feel like I fall more into the ‘favourite uncle’ category,” Russel argued, “but that’s all right by me. I don’t have the energy for all-night movie marathons. Although, frankly, I’m not sure how much energy D’ll have at this point either. He’s not getting any younger and his sleep cycles always tended to be a bit… artificial.”

She bounced her leg a little, wondering how much she could tell them and how much she should leave to 2-D, when her tongue made the decision for her.

“He has a _schedule_ ,” she announced to the general confusion of all.

“His _medication_ ,” she clarified, meeting Russel and Murdoc’s questioning stares. “It’s on a _schedule_. That he _follows_. Using _his phone_.”

“Slow down now, baby girl,” Russel said, grinning. “I’m still catching up to the part where 2-D follows a schedule, especially for drugs.”

“Well, for his prescriptions,” she told him. “I mean, he might take other things, and he did say he drinks, sometimes even when he shouldn’t, but… Have you _seen_ him?”

“Well, he’s got some grip strength,” Russel admitted.

“And an arse like two rabbits in a sack,” Murdoc interjected.

“He’ll be happy you noticed,” Russel returned.

“If you _dare_ —”

“I just wonder how he got himself sorted out,” Russel finished, ignoring Murdoc. “I mean, he was never the most organized on his own.”

She mentally chided herself then. She had said too much. 2-D had promised to tell her how it had come about while they were alone and now she had opened that train of thought to the others. And yet, they would have to know sooner or later that he was keeping a schedule. It was hardly something he could hide. Even so…

“A doctor, probably,” she said, hoping to throw them off. “If he was on his own and far from home, he would run out eventually.”

“Maybe, but he’d be more likely to buy something from a back-alley dealer,” Russel said. “He never liked doctors much.”

“He might not have had a choice,” she said. “If he was sick enough, he might have been brought to a clinic. If he was hurt, if he was completely out of medicine…”

She trailed off, noticing how Murdoc stiffened slightly and drew inward.

“What?” she said to him, eying him suspiciously.

“Well…” Murdoc began, hemming and hawing a little until her unflinching stare broke his resolve. “The thing is… he wouldn’t have had much in the way of drugs on the… ah… on the island. I mean, it was a fucking island, you know? One made of rubbish. Out in the middle of the ocean like. Not so many chemists out there. And I… well… I had laid in a bit of a supply, but probably not as much as 2-D’s sensibilities would have preferred, you savvy? I tried to portion ‘em out right, but… toward the end… there weren’t hardly any left. Maybe none. And he wouldn’t have had any on his person ‘cause I kept them. When we got… separated… he would have been on his own from there on in. So, ending up somewhere in a state that might convince someone to bring him to a doctor is not entirely out of the question.” He lit a cigarette to avoid looking up at his audience, and added, “I mean, his face already looks like he’s been in a horrible accident.”

“Two,” Russel pointed out.

“Yes, well… not very helpful in this line of speculation, Russ,” Murdoc replied, his grin tight and sharp.

Noodle opened her mouth to say that, perhaps, speculation in and of itself might be rude when its object was just upstairs, but she was saved from further commentary by a knock at the door.

“Pizza!” she declared and escaped the conversation by springing from her seat, snatching up the money that had been put aside, and fetching the delivery. This she took some time about, hoping the subject would have changed by the time she returned, but luck was not on her side. Russel and Murdoc were still speculating, offering increasingly outlandish scenarios in an effort to quietly one-up each other.

“Genie in a fuckin’ bottle,” Murdoc said, grinning. “Had enough bloody trash on that island, could very well have come about.”

She plunked the pizza boxes on the table and fell back into her chair with a sigh. “You two…”

She swallowed back any further commentary at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then 2-D appeared in the doorway. He had left the braids in to shower and given his hair a vigorous towel-dry; it fluffed out around him like a lion’s mane. He had shaved, removing what little scruff was on his face, and dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt. The clothing fit, but more snugly than she remembered.

“At least you won’t have to keep hitching up the arse of your jeans,” Murdoc said. He sat with his back to the door, but had turned around to witness 2-D’s arrival. “Who got you meds, Dents? We got a bet going.”

2-D cast her a quick and seemingly neutral glance, but she fancied she saw the slightest flicker of anger in his eyes before he turned back to Murdoc.

“Maria,” he said, catching hold of the upper edge of the door frame.

“Maria?” Murdoc prompted.

“Rich old bird in Mexico,” 2-D said, unaffected. He chinned the door frame in an unusual show of athleticism and dropped back down. “I shagged her for favours.”

This prompted a round of nervous laughter, much to his apparent confusion, and it died off quickly.

“You’re not kidding,” Russel said.

“She liked my accent. An’ my eyes.” 2-D looked thoughtful. “A bit fetishy that, I suppose, but she got me proper medicine from a proper doctor. And she promised to get me a plane ticket in the end, so that was all right. And she wan’t _that_ old. She could have almost been my mum, but Mexican. So, younger’n Murdoc,” he finished, pointedly pulling himself back up on the doorframe.

“Hardy-har, quit climbing the walls,” Murdoc said, turning back to the table as 2-D lowered himself. When Murdoc was no longer looking, 2-D pulled himself up once more and tried to put his bare feet on Murdoc’s shoulders, missing by an inch. Then he dropped down for good and took the empty seat at the table. 

You’re lying, she thought as 2-D briefly met her eyes and looked away, if you were a boy toy, you would have been better dressed. She thought it out some more. Nor would you have done your laundry or other types of “jobs”.

2-D reached for the topmost pizza box, only to get his hand slapped away.

“Get some drinks before putting your fingers in everything,” Murdoc snapped as 2-D rubbed his stinging hand.

She punched him somewhat harder than playfully.

“Murdoc! He only just arrived! I’ll get the drinks.”

She began by pulling out four cans of beer – regional craft brews with which they had begun to experiment – but 2-D turned it down and pleasantly asked if there was any cola.

“You’re making a mockery of the institution, D,” Russel said, shaking his head sadly. “What’s pizza without beer?”

“I’d like one later, if i’s all right,” 2-D replied, taking the cold can from her as she passed drinks around the table. “I’s just… I dun wanna drink too soon after… you know.”

“You used to down ‘em with bloody Stella, mate,” Murdoc said, and then nodded thoughtfully. “‘Course, that might explain it. Watered dog piss is no basis for a chemical reaction.”

“Enough!” she complained, flipping the top of the first pizza box. It was not her preference, so she pushed it toward 2-D and continued her quest. “2-D is being very responsible and I’m happy for him! Also hungry. Let’s eat!”

It was almost as though they had never been apart. No one spoke of the recent past, of what they had been up to, or anything that had happened since the fight in the middle of the ocean. Instead they spoke of plans, of music, of the state of the world, and of the possibility of finding a newer, larger place to live.

“Some legal stuff to sort out before we can all sign to it, of course,” Murdoc said. “Bloody industry wankers. They want me in to meet the death squad.”

“What he’s so eloquently trying to say is you and D’ll be on your own,” Russel said, leaning in toward her slightly to fake a conspiratorial conversation. “I got some stuff in storage I need to inventory and I’m crashing with friends for a couple of days rather than crossing town multiple times. I graciously convinced Murdoc do to the same although I doubt he’s got friends to stay with.”

“On the contrary, I will be spending time with a lovely lady of my acquaintance,” Murdoc corrected him.

“Just make sure you pay her with real money,” Russel said. “I ain’t bailin’ you out of jail. Anyway,” he continued as Murdoc casually flipped him off, “all that to say that you can have your boy to yourself for a few days next week to squeal over zombies and paint each other’s nails or whatever it is you two get up to before you turn it into music. What’dya say, D?” he added, turning to face 2-D. “You think you can keep an eye on her? She’s not ten anymore…”

2-D eyed her up and down, and then squinted at Russel.

“Are you mental?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Murdoc interjected, “which is why I originally planned to stay behind.”

She glared at him on principle. She had already spent several days alone with him, checking listings and discussing album themes, and also with Russel, talking about the political climate and some of the newest sounds out there. She wanted some time to jam alone with 2-D, who was less about talk and more about sound and whose creative process was more chaotic and organic. More than that, she wanted some time to just… be… in the same time and space as him.

“We’ll be fine,” she assured them.

“Well, you can buy your own bloody snacks then,” Murdoc told her, displacing the box from which 2-D had fished out another slice. “Fuckin’ Hell, Dents. Do you get a black hole installed when you become a gigolo?”

“I din’t eat all day,” 2-D protested. “I been on a plane.”

“Yeah, man,” Russel chimed in. “You’ve been really unnecessarily harsh. He literally got off a plane and showed up in a taxi… what? An hour ago? Can you at least give him a day to get over the jet lag before you start in on him? The time difference—“

“Uh…”

2-D paused mid-chew, brow creased in anguish.

“S’cuse me, I gotta check something,” he said, dropping the remains of his pizza slice in a nearby box and sprinting back upstairs.

“The Hell?” Murdoc said, looking after him.

It hit her then. _The time._

“I’ve got it,” she told Murdoc and Russel, leaving the table. As she climbed the stairs, she heard Murdoc complain about Russel butting into his business. The sound of normality.

She found 2-D rifling frantically through his bags, checking the labels of his medication with one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other, as anxious as she ever remembered him.

She crept up behind him and ran her hands over his shoulders. This defeated him. He slumped over the bag and the myriad bottles, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead.

“Are you all right, Toochi?”

“I forgot,” he whispered, his voice thick and harsh. “I forgot the time changes. I mean, I knew, but I forgot at the same time. I’s stupid…”

“It’s not,” she told him, rubbing the base of his neck with her thumbs. “Don’t think like that.”

“I… I took the wrong things. I mean, at the wrong time.”

“It _is_ the right time,” she reminded him. “The time your phone gave you is the right time for here. I know it makes little difference to the way medicine works, but if you want to keep a schedule, _this_ is your new schedule, and you will be better off following it immediately. Will you be sick with what you’ve taken?”

“I dunno. I just…” 2-D gestured anxiously. “There was the one on the plane and… um…”

“Take your time,” she told him. “I’m not Murdoc. You don’t need to answer me quickly. You know what your medicine does better than anyone else. Think about it and I’ll go get you something that might help.”

By the time she returned, 2-D was sitting cross-legged in front of the scuffed night stand, the pill bottles lined up along its edge. He looked up at her as she approached and his eyes widened in wonder and delight. He beamed as she spilled Katsu into his lap.

“He might not want to stay with you right away,” she told him as he let Katsu sniff his fingers. “You’re still a stranger to him and I’ve disturbed his nap.”

She watched 2-D scratch Katsu’s ears and let his hand run over Katsu’s back as the cat left him to wander around his room. 2-D tracked him, trailing his fingers through Katsu’s fur whenever he passed nearby until he finally crawled back into 2-D’s lap and meowed at him for attention that he was happy to provide.

2-D was so easy to please, she thought, and he smiled like the sun. She could not understand how Murdoc took pleasure in dimming that light.

She sat down next to him.

“Have you figured it out?”

“Maybe,” he told her, petting Katsu where the cat lounged across his legs. “I lined ‘em up by when I take ‘em and I think I missed one in the time change, but i’s not so bad. I’s a mood one, so I can take it tomorrow.” He indicated a bottle of smallish pills and then moved on to another. “These ones are for pain though, and if I take ‘em by the clock it’ll be too soon, but if I wait it’ll mess me up tomorrow.”

“What will happen if you don’t take it?”

“Just… really sore. Sometimes sick. I’s hard to sleep ‘cause they got something that helps that too.” He sighed and pressed his tongue to the gap between his teeth, considering his options. “I got some stuff _just_ for sleep. For… for nightmares and the like. I dun like takin’ them. Not supposed to often anyway, but… if I dun take the painkillers and take those instead, I’ll sleep and not feel anything. I’ll be dozy in the morning though.”

“You’ll be dozy anyway from jet lag,” she told him. “If you do that, at least you’ll sleep at the right time. I can listen for your alarm in case you have trouble getting up to follow your regular schedule, but you can sleep in between if you want and you’ll be back on track.”

“I guess,” 2-D said, offering a wan smile.

“You might feel off for a while, but that will go away more quickly if you keep to your schedule as much as possible.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I knew you’d figure something out if you thought about it a little while.”

“Ever’thing moves fast,” 2-D said, petting Katsu as he purred contentedly. “Ever’thing ‘cept me. Small towns in Mexico are nice like that. No one moves too fast.”

She did not think the comment was directed toward her, but it made her sigh none the less.

“I’m sorry I told them about your medication,” she said. “I thought… such things are so public, they would surely find out eventually. And I was so proud of you! But I should have known better. Of course they would press you for a story.”

“Yeah, they’d have found out,” 2-D agreed. “I just… I wan’t ready yet is all.”

“And after me saying you could tell me anything,” she said. Dropping her voice, she added, “You did a good job of lying though.”

“A l’il maybe,” 2-D said, smiling sadly.

“Well, I will be much more careful in the future, if you still feel you can trust me,” she assured him. “If not, well… I brought it on myself. You know what we should do when Murdoc and Russel are gone? Make-over. Total girl’s night.”

2-D laughed at that and she took it as a sign to continue.

“We can get you some new clothes, too, and jam a bit if we pick up some of your old instruments. I can drive now, so it won’t be a problem.”

“Legally?”

She grinned. “For a while, yeah.”

2-D shook his head and momentarily looked as though he wanted to shove Katsu off his lap in a fit of pique. He did not, however, merely paused in his petting to flex his fingers stiffly, and then resume.

“I feel old,” he said. And then, “I wanna take you out when they’re gone. A restaurant. I gotta call ahead though. Issat a’right?”

“Of course, if you want,” she said, curious and mildly confused. “We might have to sort out your banking first though.”

2-D nodded.

“Yeah. Make sure there’s money and the like.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing his back even as he scratched Katsu. “I think there will be money…”


	11. Chapter 11

There was money.

Even in her teenaged years, she had had a better grasp of banking than 2-D and convinced him, through careful arguments, that allowing Murdoc to “assist” him with his savings was perhaps not the best course of action. If he needed help managing his money, his parents were more likely to have his best interests at heart. She had helped him organize an account that Murdoc could not touch, but to which his parents were permitted limited access for the purpose of making payments and maintaining investments in exchange for a monthly stipend, transferred automatically. They also saw to it that his taxes were paid in his absence. With residuals coming in and a lack of spending while he was out of the country, this ensured 2-D had a fair amount of cash on hand. Enough, in fact, to excite his imagination and require her to laughingly talk him down from his fantasies.

After the banking, she had driven 2-D to his parents’ house to collect some of his possessions. There were fewer boxes than she expected, but they nevertheless left the bulk of them behind, picking up only a few instruments, some DVDs, and other odds and ends 2-D felt he might need before they moved into a new place. They stayed to visit a while and she tried not to be jealous of the attention 2-D received, particularly from his mother, who hugged him warmly and commented on how good he looked, how nice it was that he had returned home, and how, if he wanted to make a new album with the band, she hoped he would not let “that man” take advantage of him, extracting a promise from Noodle to oversee things, much to 2-D’s general annoyance.

“Sorry,” 2-D said when they were back in the car and heading home. “Mum likes to talk.”

“I don’t mind,” she told him, grinning. 2-D tended to worry about having a family that was both loving and accessible when the rest of his bandmates did not, but she found the normalcy refreshing. “I like hearing about ‘aunt Grace’. I hope she and ‘uncle Roger’ work things out. If they don’t, we can send them the transcripts from our last interview so they can see what disfunction really looks like. At least their kids are doing well.”

“Hmm?” 2-D said, startled.

“Your mum said she was pleased to hear how well ‘the girls’ were doing in school,” she prompted. “I presumed your aunt’s children, although I suppose they could be grandchildren if they’re still in school.”

“Oh. Yeah. The girls,” 2-D said, smiling fondly. “They’re bloody brilliant.” He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and stuck it in his mouth. “You want?”

She did, so he lit two and passed one to her. She supposed their bad habits would catch up to them one day, but today was not that day, and something about 2-D blowing smoke rings with varying levels of success while singing along to the radio was relaxing. She joined in, improvising background vocals, and then switching to take the lead while he punched up the melody on his rescued melodica until they had effectively revamped the afternoon’s playlist.

Given that the band currently only had the one vehicle and Murdoc would be taking it with him, they seized the opportunity to stock up on items they might need for their few days on their own. They could easily walk or take transportation to a variety of shops, but a vehicle was easier for large batches of things, such as groceries and sundries, and most especially snacks.

On the way back, they stopped at an artisanal ice cream and confectioner’s shop to pick up sweets for those at home and a couple of waffle cones for themselves. It was there she discovered what had finally become of 2-D’s rough and cocky demeanour, at least as far as female salesclerks were concerned. Entering the shop, 2-D immediately perked up and drew himself out of his more laid-back stance, becoming forward and flirtatious in a way that should have been creepy – especially coming from a very tall man with no eyeballs, scraggly hair, and rather vintage clothing – but somehow was not. His manner was all cheek, impish grins, and zero obligation. No offence meant, and none taken. If someone responded poorly, he merely turned down his enthusiasm until they were at ease.

Conversely, he matched any enthusiasm with which he was met.

“It’s not polite to hit on women while they’re working,” she informed him, sitting on the car, licking a scoop of Irish coffee flavoured ice cream.

“Wan’t hittin’ on them,” 2-D argued, unconcerned. “Din’t ask them out or anything. Just flirted.”

“One might argue it’s the same thing,” she said.

“I’s not,” he said. “Was only smilin’ an’ makin’ eyes. Kept it above the neck an’ ever’thing. Even that brunette, wass’er name – Linda – she din’t mind after I stopped leanin’ on the counter.”

She wanted to argue the point, stating that people in customer service were required to play nice and so he could not be sure they did not mind, but she ended up grinning instead. In truth, the women running the shop _had_ seemed to enjoy the interaction as little more than a silly diversion, especially once it was clear that 2-D would back away from all but the most positive response. She still disapproved, but something Russel had once told her summed it up best: 2-D’s flirtations were nothing but brass – loud, blatant, and mostly for show.

It just so happened that brass worked well in a band.

“You do this a lot, I take it,” she said.

“Yeah,” 2-D agreed cheerfully. “I get stuff like free scoops.” He tilted his chocolate brandy cone toward her. It was indeed fuller than her own. “An’ I like sex.”

“Toochi!”

“What? You’re old enough to drive but not hear the word ‘sex’?”

“Yeah, but you don’t just _announce_ that you like it while ramming your tongue in an ice cream cone!” she told him, laughing. “Besides, I thought you said you weren’t hitting on them.”

“I wan’t,” he insisted. “You only do that from the other side’a the counter. But,” he added before she could ask him to elaborate, “if I get a nibble, I’m not gonna leave it there, am I? I’s been a whole… When did I get onna plane? I’s been _days_.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Last thing I did in Mexico was have sex.” He reconsidered. “Well, the last thing I did was have a shower ‘cause I’d had sex and din’t wanna spend a day onna plane smellin’ like Murdoc.”

She howled.

“Now you’re just doing it on purpose!” she accused him, and the mischievous little grin he gave her did nothing to disabuse her of the notion. “I do _not_ need to hear about your sex life. That is entirely too much information.”

The flicker of uncertainty that crossed 2-D’s face gave her pause. She could have easily imagined it. And yet…

“Unless you _need_ to talk about it,” she amended. “I mean, if something happens that you need to talk about, it’s fine. That’s not the same as bragging rights.”

“Well, a’s a’right then,” 2-D said. His smile did not fade, but did take on air of melancholy. “D’you really think I bothered ‘em? In the shop, I mean? It was never strange before…”

It occurred to her then that, like the rough-edged cockiness before it, 2-D’s brass might be a show of confidence to help him through difficult interactions. It was hard to say for certain and not something that could be easily asked, especially if he was unaware of it himself.

It hurt a bit to think she no longer knew much about the people she felt closest to.

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “They didn’t seem bothered, but others might be. Especially if they’re not in a position to let someone else serve you. And especially if you keep getting free ice cream and they don’t,” she added to lighten the mood.

It worked, at least in theory. 2-D’s grin widened a little, but remained somewhat strained.

“Just… be you, but be careful, I guess,” she told him. “Don’t lean forward so much. And stop being so tall, you’re all loomy!”

He laughed at that and she nudged him lightly with her elbow as they finished their cones and jumped back into the car for the rest of the ride home, but parts of the conversation sat badly with her. Home was not very far away, and Murdoc and Russel would be leaving tomorrow, but a part of her needed to know, needed to _ask_ , and the privacy of the vehicle seemed the best time.

“Toochi,” she ventured as 2-D arranged their box of pastries on the floor where it would not be crushed. He made a little noise of inquiry and looked up at her. “About before… _Did_ something happen that you need to talk about?”

“Oh. Well,” he said, considering. “Nothin’ bad, really. Kinda funny. I’s just… You asked me before about my scripts an’, well… it all sorta goes together, you know?”

“Together?”

“Yeah, like… um… Maria,” 2-D said. “She made me go to a doctor and get proper medicine an’ the like, but she wan’t some rich bird. At least, she wan’t the rich bird I had sex with. Um… You can drive, you know.”

She had not started the car, hoping to prompt 2-D into sharing his story. Now, she reached tentatively for the key, pausing before she turned it.

“I want to hear,” she told him. “And we’re alone now. Will you have time to tell me before we get home?”

2-D shrugged.

“If I dun have time, I can tell you when they’re gone,” he said, although she greatly feared that he would not. If he did not get it out now, she would never know the full story. He might tell her a story, sure, but it would be a truncated and sanitized version.

However, by the same token, she did not want to force him.

“All right,” she said, and started the vehicle. As if in agreement, 2-D began to tell her what had happened to him since the fight in the ocean. He skimmed nervously over his presence at Point Nemo – a story for another time, she thought – and then she nearly backed into another vehicle when he told her he had been swallowed by a whale.

“You _what_?”

“Um… You ought to watch where you’re at, luv,” 2-D said nervously, twisting his fingers together, concerned less with her driving than the memory itself. “A whale. Murdoc… somehow… had it guarding me an’, well… with all the fightin’… I dun really wanna talk about it right now.”

“All right,” she said, carefully correcting her position and moving the vehicle onto the road while vowing to have a talk with Murdoc about Point Nemo. She had been avoiding it herself, still angry about the video shoot and her cyborg replacement and not quite ready to hear Murdoc’s justifications, but with two band members wronged, the stakes were raised.

However, that was a conversation that could wait. Now was for 2-D.

He told her about the cove where he was stranded until he followed a plane to another beach where a rave was underway. The way he told it made it clear that he felt stupid about it, but the cove had been rocky and difficult to exit and he had been half-starved and in pain without his prescriptions. He had only made the attempt because the plane had been so close. Really, she thought, how much could be expected of him?

He had mingled with the rave and discovered he was on a small island that was not, in fact, uninhabited, although the population was so tiny that it might as well have been. After getting phenomenally stoned at the beach party and somehow winning some money, he hitched a ride back to the mainland with some of the party-goers and ended up in a small town that nevertheless made a brisk business in the tourist trade. He was scooped up and funnelled into a group making trinkets for sale. He was taught how to weave bracelets, which he rather enjoyed, and slept on the beach at night to save what little money he made and the remains of what he had won.

It was not a terrible life. He no longer had his prescriptions, of course, but anything he needed, he could usually find. They were often cut with other things, but better than nothing, he felt. So life was not terrible, but it was lonely. He could talk up tourists and many residents spoke a fair bit of English, but some types of loneliness were… particular. So when he learned of Maria, who managed a houseful of women with a reputation for cleanliness and a willingness to negotiate, he decided to seek her out.

“You went to hire a prostitute,” she said flatly.

“Yeah,” 2-D said matter-of-factly. “I’s safest when you dun know anyone. Just needa find a place with a good reputation is all. Maria din’t have a fancy place, but ever’one said it was clean and a’right if you din’t have much money. Some places have a minimum fee an’ the like, but Maria could find someone for you.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “I would just as soon not hear about who she found for you.”

“No one really,” 2-D said. “I look funny an’ sound funny and she was curious, so she asked me all sorts’a questions an’ I guess I was more regular-lonely than I thought ‘cause I started talkin’ about how I got there an’… just… couldn’t stop. Um… I think it was the drugs I’d bought. They wan’t so good.”

He quit toying with his shirt and lit a cigarette, using the action to disguise the discomfort the memory caused him. He offered her one, but she declined and dropped one hand from the wheel to touch his arm. 

“She was kind of a mum,” 2-D continued. “She gave me something like tea an’ made me lie down on an old sofa in the house part – 'cause lots of the girls had l’il ones, sometimes from before, and they lived in a regular house at the front with a door to Maria’s place around the back – an’ after I slept a bit, she asked me if I wanted a job. I said I had one making bracelets, but she said I could do that too an’ just… advertise-like while I was doin’ it. To tourists, you know. ‘Cause they ask. An’ after that come back and help fix things ‘cause I said I’d tinkered with stuff before. An’ for that I could have meals an’ a cot in a converted storeroom. It wan’t fancy, but it was good ‘cause the weather was changin’ an’ it was gettin’ rough onna beach.”

“Did she get you to see a doctor then too?” she prompted gently when 2-D fell into silence.

“No,” he said. “I did like she said a while. I worked inna market and sent anyone who asked about it to her place. An’ ever’one asked, ‘cause they do. An’ they asked me lots ‘cause I could speak English, see, an’ be very clear, so I sent loads of customers and was a good investment. At night I’d fix stuff I could fix and the girls who’re off would cook for the l’il ones an’ I’d eat then too. So I kept my bed with fixin’ things and chores like laundry, ‘cause I could always do laundry a’right.

“Anyway, one day, I told one guy about the house and there’s this bird and her man and she heard what I was sayin’ an’, all jokin’ like, asks me if I work there and I said, yeah, I do, so she asked me if I was onna menu an’ she was cute, so I said yes.”

It was fortunate she was not drinking or she would surely have snorted the liquid out of her nose. As it was, the sound she made was inhuman as she burst into laughter. It was not only that she could picture 2-D saying it, he seemed so indecently pleased to share it, laughing quietly to himself as he cast her sly glances.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed with mock dismay, knowing a reaction was expected. “What happened?”

“Well, I told Maria, ‘cause you can’t have a client in a storeroom, an’ she was sorta mad ‘cause she said she had a reputation an’ she can’t have someone working who hadn’t been to a doctor to get checked. An’ also I was takin’ street drugs for pain an’ that dun look good. But then she got all quiet-like an’ asked if I was serious when I said yes to that bird an’ I said, sure, I like sex. Might as well get money for it, yeah? An’ she reminded me that you can’t always choose who you get, an’ I said that was fine ‘cause she had rules an’ din’t serve any really bad types anyway.

“So she got me a visit with their doctor, although I dun really like doctors, and he passed me. Said he would get some other tests just in case, but that I should be fine. Told me I should use protection, just general safety-like. An’ then he asked me about my eyes an’ why I took drugs for pain an’ what I used to take and told me they have better stuff now, not really different, but better, an’ gave me prescriptions for real medicine an’ a list of how to take ‘em. Maria paid for the first ones and then helped me set up a schedule. I put it on my wall, an’ then on a phone when I got one.

“It din’t matter ‘cause the cute girl din’t come. I thought she was jokin’ anyway, ‘cause her man was there, but it woulda been nice.”

She smiled at that, but only because 2-D seemed eager to tell her. He had obviously delivered the last line as a joke, but the story as a whole sat badly with her. Never mind the process by which he had come to end up in Mexico – that was still something for which she wanted more answers – or even the idea that he wove bracelets and was adopted by prostitutes. If anyone was going to guilelessly stumble his way into such a situation, it was 2-D. She was not even averse to the thought that he was willing to sell himself to pretty tourists. As much as thinking of it felt weird to her, it did not seem unreasonable to accept money for something you would pay for in other circumstances.

But…

He had walked in a potential client and ended up sleeping in what was effectively a closet, doing small jobs, and getting fed with the children. That seemed… odd… to her, somehow, although this Maria had certainly been under no obligation to take him in.

“So,” she said, hoping to learn a little more, “did Maria ever take you up on your offer?”

2-D grinned, all sunshine and mischief.

“Oh, loads,” he drawled at her, winking to indicate exaggeration. “Din’t think you’d wanna hear all that, you not bein’ into braggin’ rights an’ the like. ‘Course, one thing you find out is not ever’one who comes wants sex. This one bird, local – I got more locals than tourists ‘cause I was ‘exotic’ – she looked like she worked inna office, and she’d pay to play with my face for half an’ hour.”

“What?”

“Oh, like, you know… Here,” he said as she pulled up to a stop light.

He touched her arm to make her look at him and then rubbed her cheeks and the corner of her eyes with his thumbs, much as she might do to Katsu when charmed by his little kitty face.

“All over like that,” he said when the flow of traffic resumed. “An’ then she’d lick my eyelids.”

“ _What?_ ”

She hit the brake so hard, she nearly put them both through the windscreen. A chorus of horns sounded from behind her.

“She wanted to lick my _eyes_ , but I told her it was unsanit’ry. Light’s green, you know.”

“Ugh. Ew. _Why?_ ” she said, releasing the brake, and could not help giggling in spite of her misgivings. It was such an odd story, it hardly seemed real.

“‘Cause I’m funny-lookin’ and she’d never seen anyone like me before,” 2-D replied matter-of-factly. “It was weird, but it din’t hurt none and she was a regular. Came every couple’a weeks or so. Another was this bloke, Manuel…” 

“You had male clients, too?”

“Yeah. I like girls better, but some blokes are a’right. Manuel din’t come for sex though. He liked poetry. Not just Mexican poetry, but all kinds in all diff’rent languages. He heard my accent in the market and liked it, so he paid to have me read epic poetry in English for an hour. He’d got other people to read for him before, but he… liked to toss up, you know? Not sexual-like, but close, and most people dun like that just to read. At Maria’s, it was expected, an’ he paid for it, so…”

2-D shrugged.

“After a bit, he started bringing a cake an’ coffee – a whole cake, not a piece, mind – and we’d have some before I read for him. The girls got the rest and shared it with the l’il ones, so that was a’right. Good bloke. He knew lots’a languages and talked to me like… in English.”

It was not what he intended to say and she did not miss the hitch in his sentence, but 2-D seemed disinclined to elaborate.

“Not ever’one was as good,” he said instead, sadness creeping into his voice. “One bloke was the rough sort an’ lied about it to Maria. I din’t take that too well, but it was mostly a’right.”

“Did that one person… hurt you at all?” she said, afraid to hear, but more afraid of leaving 2-D to stew in his memories.

“Oh. Um. Not really,” 2-D told her. “Just… I wouldn’t have it after… I wouldn’t have it and made a scene an’ there was some trouble ‘cause you can’t really call the police, you know? Maria wan’t too happy ‘bout it and there was shouting, but he’d lied to her, so she had some lev’rage.”

“Sounds rough. At least they took care of you,” she said with more cheer than she felt.

“Mm. Yeah.” 2-D’s response was non-committal.

“No romance with your co-workers, I guess.”

2-D grinned at that.

“No,” he said, uttering a low-pitched, crooning laugh. “Too much like working after hours, really. ‘Sides, you dun fuck your pets.”

Hands clamped to the wheel, she swerved to the side of the road, jumping the curb a little as she screeched to a halt, barely remembering to wrench the car into park before she threw open the door and lunged from the vehicle. From the corner of her eye, she could see 2-D staring after her in bewilderment, but she could not bear to look at him. It was not 2-D himself that angered her, but that he knew. He knew for fact what she had only glanced at obliquely, not willing to believe it was true.

They treated him like a dog. Took him in as a curiosity and a male presence to ward off trouble. Bedded him in a closet and fed him with the children. Took him to the vet only when he proved worthy of stud service. Punished him for his bark. Took care of him as long as he was not too aggressive. Nothing but a pet and he knew it. Knew it because… because…

_He knew lots’a languages and talked to me like…_

Because Manuel talked to him like a human being.

“Noodle.”

She did not realize she was pacing until 2-D grabbed her arm and she felt herself yanked back a step or two.

“Why?” she demanded, turning on him. “Why did you let them treat you that way? You’re not a dog!”

“They were nice to me,” 2-D said. “Not a lot of people are. I din’t work for her that much, honestly. I liked making bracelets and they liked the advertisement, so I mostly did that.”

“They took advantage of you!”

“An’ were nice. Loads’a people take advantage of me an’ aren’t. Honestly should’a stayed,” 2-D said, “but I like music an’ when I heard ‘bout you an’ Russ, I had to come back.”

He drew her into a hug then – slowly, inexorably – and she wanted to fight him off, to pace and burn off steam, but she hugged him back instead. It was so easy to do. It had always been so easy to do.

And yet, it killed her. It killed her. He knew he was being treated like a pet and he knew that Murdoc treated him like garbage – was likely to treat him like garbage again – and he put up with it anyway. It was the stupidest thing she had ever heard.

Just. So. Stupid.

But she did not want to think like that. Did not want to think of 2-D as stupid when he had already proven to be so perceptive.

“Doesn’t it make you mad?” she murmured, digging the pads of her fingers into his shoulders as she squeezed him.

“Yeah,” he told her, stroking her hair with one hand, the broad palm of the other pressed against her back. “But I’m not strong an’ smart like you. I just make do with what there is and trust ever’thing’ll be a’right in the end. ‘Sides, being mad makes me tired an’ I’m already tired a lot. You oughtn’t be mad either. I's not worth it. I’d rather see you smile. An’ you an’ me, we’re gonna have a nice time when Russ and Murdoc are gone, yeah? Dance ’til the walls shake an’ sing the ceiling down. Unless the neighbours complain.”

She smiled a little at that.

“Fuck the neighbours,” she said.

“They can’t afford me. I’m ‘exotic’.”

“Ugh! Toochi! You’re awful! Get away!” she complained dramatically, pulling back in mock disgust.

He let her go, but ruffled her hair with both hands as she escaped, all cheek and mischief. She punched him twice in the shoulder, not too hard, and then let her hand slide part-way down his arm.

“I’ll try not to be mad, because you asked,” she said, “but you know you’re worth getting angry for, right?”

“I dunno,” he said, and she could see that it was so, “but there’s loads’a things to be angry about, so maybe wait for the ones that haven’t happened yet. It won’t change the past.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

“Okay,” she agreed to make him happy as they made their way back to the vehicle. “Let’s get the car back before Murdoc thinks we escaped in it. As soon as he’s gone tomorrow, we’re cutting off that rat’s nest attached to your head.”

“What? With clippers?”

“No,” she huffed dramatically as she started up the car again, winking at him when she caught that hint of mischief in his eye. “I booked a spa day for us. Full works. You can get all cleaned up before we start work on the new album. It’s like girl’s night make-over _extreme_.”

“I dunno. Sounds fancy,” 2-D said, eyes widened in alarm.

“It’s fun and you get attendants to fuss over you. I think you’d really like it. I’m half-convinced Murdoc does it, but only half because I’m not sure anyone would touch him with a ten foot pole. They might catch something.” She grinned when 2-D failed to suppress a laugh. “I know for a fact Russel gets manicures now and then. You have to look good for the cameras, you know! And it’s just nice. Mani, pedi, skin treatments, massage – I think you’ll really like the massage – and hair. Although we’ll have to take your braids out. I can help you with that tonight.”

It occurred to her for the first time that there might be some meaning to the braids in 2-D’s hair, haphazard though they were. Although she was certain she understood him better than either Russel or Murdoc, she often found his thought processes inscrutable.

“Will you be okay with that? Taking out the braids?” she prompted.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. I’s fine,” 2-D said. “I put them in when I was anxious an’ had nothin’ to do with my hands. Is sushi a’right?”

“I… guess so,” she told him, confused by the non sequitur. “Why?”

“I made a reservation to take you out for lunch, day after tomorrow, but din’t want to, you know, make assumptions.”

“You’ve known me since I was, like, eight. When have I _not_ eaten sushi?”

“Tastes change, luv.”

“I suppose,” she allowed. “Is it a nice place?”

2-D looked thoughtful. “I guess so. Good reviews anyway.”

“That means we can get rid of your shitty clothes, too.”

She grinned and cuffed him lightly on the ear. He laughed and waved her away, making her feel every inch the big sister. It might no longer be a need, but she still wanted to take care of him, her tallest, skinniest, sweetest, strangest, and most mischievous brother.


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t goggle at everything. You’ll cause an accident.”

“I’ve never been in a spa before. It smells like perfume, but not all chemical-like.”

“Aromatherapy products use essential oils. They’re nice. You’ll like them. Come on, you’re blocking traffic!”

She towed 2-D away from the middle of the doorway and toward the front desk where she confirmed their appointments and received locker assignments. She was gratified to note that her comments regarding 2-D – that he was inexperienced, harmlessly flirtatious, sometimes easily overwhelmed, and of odd appearance due to his hyphema – had been received. The woman at the desk did not react to nor comment upon his eyes, smiled sunnily, and fully explained what was required of him, pausing after each instruction so that he could ask questions, which she answered smoothly and pleasantly. It put 2-D in an upbeat mood until one of the attendants led them to the wet rooms and explained the process for a body wrap.

“N–no,” 2-D said, shaking his head and stepping back a pace. “I dun want that.”

“No?” she said, perplexed. “It’s only to keep your skin from being dry and itchy.”

2-D twisted his fingers together.

“Sorry, no. Sorry. I know i’s prob’ly expensive an’ I can pay you back, but I dun wanna be wrapped up, no. Dun wanna be trapped like that. I dun like it.”

“Oh,” she breathed, a memory of Point Nemo’s broadcast flickering through her thoughts. Between that and the whale…

“You don’t have to do it, Toochi. It’s all right. It’s not for everyone.” She smiled encouragingly. “Would you do the rest if they _didn’t_ wrap you up? There’s a salt scrub to get rid of dry skin, a hydrating lotion, and a scalp massage, which is really nice for people who get headaches.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, but you know that already,” she said, reaching up to lightly scratch the back of 2-D’s head.

His eyes closed in bliss.

“And if there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, anything at all, just tell the attendant to stop and they will,” she finished, withdrawing her hand, much to 2-D’s chagrin. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do. Not here.”

“Yeah, a’right. I’d do that,” 2-D told her and she handed him off to the attendant, telling him she would be in a nearby room and that she would see him later.

Later involved two hours of scrubbing, hydrating, massaging and relaxing with only the faintest sense of worry until an attendant directed her toward a salon chair beside 2-D, who sat waiting his turn with something in his mouth.

“What have you got?” she asked, getting settled.

“Chocolate,” he told her around a mouthful.

“All right,” she said, puzzled. She had not booked them for any services that involved a spa lunch and of those that did, she could not remember any that included chocolate. “Where did you get it?”

“The salt girl gave it to me,” 2-D told her. “She did the salt and the lotion and the scalp thing an’ it was really nice, so I asked her to marry me and to do the same thing every day, but she said no, she had a boyfriend, an’ gave me a chocolate instead.”

“And you’ve been holding on to it for over an hour?”

“No, but I asked the massage girl the same thing. She din’t give me a chocolate, but I asked for one and she gave it to me.”

“Toochi! You can’t go around proposing to people for chocolate! That’s worse than flirting!”

“I din’t! I proposed for a massage. I dun think marriage is a bad economic arrangement in exchange for a massage every day.”

She snorted laughter in spite of herself.

“Fine,” she said, “but it’s still rude. They’d have to explain if they’re married, or dating, or a lesbian, or some other thing that’s none of your business.”

“I din’t ask ‘em to fuck me, I asked for a massage,” 2-D huffed, properly exasperated. “I’s a joke, and I made it a joke, so they ought to know. Most people do. If they dun joke back, or look embarrassed or offended, I stop. They din’t though. They gave me chocolates. You know who gets chocolates? Or lollies? Or a biscuit? L’il ones who’ve done something funny or clever.”

He leaned toward her slightly, brow furrowed, radiating hurt and sadness.

“I panicked a bit when the salt girl put the lotion on ‘cause it smelled too strong an’ the room was too hot an’ she used weird music with drums an’ the whole thing felt like suffocating,” he confided. “She fixed it, but then she talked to me diff'rent. You know?”

Tendrils of insult coiled about her heart and squeezed. She did know. There was a tone and cadence certain people used with 2-D. The same tone and cadence they would use with a toddler.

“An’ I guess she told the masseuse ‘cause she done the same. So I proposed all facetious-like an’ they gave me chocolates.” 2-D reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a pair of truffles in bright, metallic paper. “I brought you some.”

“Thank you,” she said, putting her hand out to accept them, jaw tight.

2-D dropped them into her palm, and then quickly took her hand as her fingers closed over them.

“Sorry,” he sighed, his voice weighted with self-reproach. “I din’t mean to say all’a that an’ ruin our good time. Dun be angry, a’right? I’s not worth it.”

“We should complain,” she said, her voice flat and colder than even she expected. She had not realized how angry she was until 2-D mentioned it. She worried she was partly responsible – she had left comments at the front desk, after all – but by 2-D’s own admission, the staff had been fine until he had reacted to his environment. “You shouldn’t put up with that. You deserve better.”

“I dun like to make a fuss,” 2-D told her. “‘Sides, I was petty at ‘em and got chocolates, so i’s done now.”

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that,” she said. “You were supposed to have fun. Do you want to go home?”

2-D shook his head.

“I gotta cut off the rat’s nest, yeah?” he said, tugging at his hair. “An’ it needs a wash. I’s full of oil from the scalp massage.”

“Okay.” She took 2-D’s hand and squeezed it. “But don’t propose to anyone else, okay? Not even as a joke. I think you would be happier if you didn’t.”

“If I’m already unhappy, it won’t make it any worse,” he said. He leaned in conspiratorially, “An’, for the record, there’s no law that says lesbians can’t fuck a singer if they want to. Depends if they’re fans or not.”

“Ugh! You’re disgusting!” she told him, elbowing him repeatedly. “Get away!”

2-D laughed and cringed in mock terror. She knew the crass comment was intended to redirect her anger, but it made it no less irritating.

A moment later an attendant arrived, apologizing for the delay and asking what kind of lacquer they would like for the manicure and pedicure. She selected a lime green polish, but 2-D considered his options for some time before requesting five different colours, one for each finger.

She feared 2-D was in for further condescendence when the attendant very deliberately explained to him that one colour was included with the package deal and, if he wanted more colours, the cost of each bottle beyond the first would be added to his tab, could he please confirm that he understood and agreed to the purchase? However, once 2-D had done so, the attendant apologized for the extreme formality.

“We’ve had some arguments in the past,” she explained. “We’re making up some new written bills for clients to sign or initial, but they haven’t arrived yet. Until they do, we have a specific spiel to give, but I can never remember it unless I cut it into bits. Makes me sound like a robot.” The attendant smiled at 2-D. “I usually bring a selection of shades, but since you’re looking for five different colours, it might be easier if you chose straight from the rack.”

She watched as 2-D ambled after the manicurist and sorted through the available colours. From the attendant’s animated chatter, it was clear that she had definite thoughts on colour combinations and was ecstatic that 2-D seemed open to suggestions. They lined colours up, trading them in and out like collectors, until they reached a combination both could agree upon. She wondered briefly if the attendant’s attitude was standard and whether 2-D was misinterpreting the actions of her co-workers, but the slightly worried look he gave her when the manicurist said she would work with one of them and her colleague would take the other told her otherwise.

She opted for the colleague and let 2-D keep his new colour-happy friend, who joked with him and exchanged nail care stories about the horrors of cheap lacquer. When the manicurist had finished, she told 2-D that she could also add designs in white, although it would mean purchasing another bottle of nail polish. He agreed whole-heartedly and watched intently as she used a smaller brush than the one provided to sketch an abstract design on each nail.

Then he looked up, caught her eye, winked, dramatically complimented the manicurist, and asked her to marry him.

“Tempting,” his attendant said. “I mean, my boyfriend’s always wanted a threesome, but I’m not sure you’re the client he had in mind. Now, if you had girlfriend you could bring along to even things out…”

“Not yet,” 2-D told her, exaggerating his disappointment. “For the best, I suppose. I dun think I could afford a flat for four.”

“Done in by real estate,” the attendant sighed. “I blame the government.”

2-D laughed at that and the conversation moved on. It was a joke, and nothing more.

She cast him a warning look over the attendant’s head all the same to remind him enough was enough, he had proven his point. He grinned at her, but inclined his head in understanding.

Once the polish had dried, they were shuffled over to the hair salon, 2-D’s mood highly improved by the banter. She did not need much done and opted for a wash, trim, and style, but 2-D’s hair was cut away in swatches until it was a light and perky fluff of blue that only served to highlight his cowlick.

It was kind of adorable.

“You lost about five years,” she told him. It could have been ten, but the crow’s feet still showed in the corners of his eyes, giving him away.

“A’s not too impressive,” he replied. “I got hit inna face with a car an’ lost nineteen.”

“Toochi…”

2-D’s self-deprecating jokes sometimes bothered her, but he seemed in genuine good humour, so she let it go. He continually ran his fingers through his hair, incessantly delighted by its length and the soft, freshly-washed feel of it.

It was well past noon and they stopped to eat before heading out to find clothing. She let 2-D wander around the shops, encouraging him to try anything that caught his eye, no matter how how ridiculous it might look.

“It’s not like you have to buy it if you don’t like it,” she reminded him, as he rifled through a rack of shirts.

They found a few items, but finished up in thrift and consignment shops, digging up unique pieces that thrilled 2-D much more than the boutique selections. It was a less costly venture than the spa, but it bogged them down with purchases and they called a halt to the adventure when they could not possibly carry any more.

“You’ll still need something for formal events,” she told him as they wrestled their bags in the door.

“I think I’ve got enough.”

“You’re not wearing a leather jacket to a gala. Get Russel to take you out when he gets back. He’s got great taste.”

It had been 2-D’s intention to lug his finds up to his room and sort them out, but he opted to sit down for a minute as she dropped her bags by the door and went to fetch them each something to drink. By the time she returned, he had dozed off in the chair, sprawled like a rag doll, his legs kicked up on the ottoman. She smiled fondly, put the glass on the side table, and ruffled 2-D’s soft, feathery hair, eliciting a small grunt of acknowledgement, although he did not wake.

She opted to let him sleep for a while, carrying the bags up to his room, and greeting Katsu on the stairs on her way back down. She had time enough to chop vegetables for some pasta primavera before the insistent alarm of 2-D’s phone went off. It continued long enough for her to grow worried and she returned to the front room to find 2-D pawing dazedly at his pockets until he unearthed the device. He silenced the braying alarm and sank back into the chair with a groan.

“I think I’ve still got jet lag,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“I think you’re just old,” she teased him. In truth, 2-D tended to run down quickly and always had, serving as the perfect napping partner when she was a child and Russel insisted she rest in the afternoon. If he had needed to be awake, he had taken amphetamines.

“You dun need to be mean about it,” he said, affecting a moue as he dug through his pockets once again for the correct pill bottle.

“We should get you one of those round, easy-carry, seven-day pill cases,” she told him when he finally found what he was looking for. “I think I’ve only seen you use one once, ages ago. That was ice water when it was cold, by the way. It’s safe to drink.”

2-D thanked her and washed down his pills with half the glass before looking down at the bottle in his hands and finally stashing it once again.

“A’s the one Russ made innit?” he said. “When it was just me and you.”

She grinned. “You remember.”

“A bit?” 2-D said. “I… know it happened, but it feels like static. In my head, I mean. I wanted… I wanted us to have fun.”

“It _was_ fun,” she said. “Fun enough that I remember. We danced and made cookies.”

“A’s true, innit?” 2-D said a bit sheepishly. “I’m glad you had fun. I was… I was so scared I’d do it all wrong an’ tryin’ not to take anything an’ then was too sick to do it right anyhow. I was never any good at takin’ care’a you.”

“You always took care of me,” she said. It felt like déjà vu. “You were always there for me.”

“A’s not the same. Not really,” 2-D said, and then he grinned at her. “Dun look at me like that. I’m not being down on myself. I’s just true. You got it right when you were older. I remember that. You said I wouldn’t be a good dad ‘cause I would have to be completely a dad or completely in a band an’ I wouldn’t be happy if I weren’t in a band. I was mad about that for a bit, but i’s true. Well, not exactly. I dun need to be in a band, but I need to be completely what I want to be when I want it. If you’re a dad, you’ve got to be completely for someone else. I can’t do that. I’m too selfish.”

“You are not!” she scolded him. “You’ll give anyone anything they ask. And you’ve always had time for me.“

“I’s easy to be gen’rous when ever’thing you have is yours,” 2-D told her with the assurance of one who has carefully mulled over the situation and come to a satisfying conclusion. He slid his feet off the ottoman and motioned for her to sit down, leaning forward in the chair as she did so. “See, if all my time is mine, I can give it to anyone I like just ‘cause I wanna. But, if all my time belongs to my family, I can’t just give it away. Maybe I only have a little bit of time for me an’ I have to measure that carefully. I dun wanna do that. I want all my time to be mine.”

“Well, so many people have stolen time from you,” she reasoned. “It would only make sense—“

2-D put a finger to his lips to silence her, mouth quirked in amusement. Devilry gleamed in his eyes.

“I’s a’right, Noodle. I dun need an excuse or an explanation,” he told her. “I’s not a bad thing. I’s just a thing that is. The trick is to know. Ever’one has bad in ‘em, but if you know, you can use it for not-so-bad things, or at least keep it from hurting other people. I’s the things you do before you know that are bad.”

“Unless you know and just use it to be a dick.”

“Now, now. I’s rude to talk about Murdoc when he’s not here.”

“It’s rude to name names,” she countered, grinning, “but I was totally thinking about Murdoc.”

2-D returned the expression, and then leaned to one side, his elbow propped on the armrest and his chin on his fist, looking dreamy and sad and older than his years in spite of his fancy nail art and fluffy new haircut.

“You’re so pretty an’ so grown up,” he said wistfully. “I was happy to see you, but I’m happier to see what you _are_.”

“You’re partly responsible for that, you know,” she told him pertly.

He shook his head.

“You’re responsible for that. Not me, and not the others.” 2-D reached out to ruffle her hair, his fingers still long and his palm broad, but not as much as she remembered them. “We din’t spend enough time all together, the lot of us. Maybe you took some of what we did all together, but it was you that done it.”

“Maybe we didn’t spend enough time together, but I was always glad when we did,” she said, ducking out of his reach and grabbing his hand as she stood. “Now, if you’re done being melancholy and _old_ , I’m making pasta primavera. Come and help.”

She gave a tug on his arm and he stood, making exaggerated claims about his aches and pains and fading memory with an edge of sarcasm so sharp, it could have finished cutting the vegetables for her. 2-D had had aches and pains and a fading memory for twenty years. Another twenty would make no difference.

Although she had invited him to help, there was very little for 2-D to do while the pasta was cooking and she lightly sautéed the vegetables, so she relegated him to the kitchen table to entertain her with jokes and conversation, chastising him when he lit a joint, although he assured her it would not interact with his medication, not in any perceptible way.

The more things changed, she thought, the more they stayed the same.

Over dinner they made vague plans to watch movies that evening, but, listening to the radio as they did the dishes, they opted for dancing instead. It was not so much a conscious thing as a natural transition from singing along and swaying to belting out lyrics with as much drama as they could muster and testing the most outlandish moves they could think of.

Once the dishes were put away, of course. It had only taken one plate skittering across the floor for her to impose that hard and fast rule.

Free from clean-up, they brought out keyboards and guitars, melodicas and rhythm machines, and all things that might possibly cause a racket. They began with covers of known songs, then began to mix and mingle them, 2-D throwing in pieces of traditional Mexican music that he had picked up in his time away. Eventually the whole morphed into original tunes supported by the rhythm machine.

She drifted between guitars and the melodica, a great deal improved from the days in which he taught her, and 2-D sang along as his fingers teased melodies from the keyboards, sometimes discordant in the heat of experimentation. He made up lyrics on the spot, often nonsensical, sometimes sublime, and occasionally downright dirty, causing her to stumble in her playing as she laughed and called him disgusting.

He told her to do it herself, then, if she was so dissatisfied, eyes bright with devilry as he held his hand out for the melodica and danced as he wove eerie, soulful tunes from a handful of sounds.

She tried to sing along, make up her own lyrics as 2-D had, but she could not do so on the spot, laughing and apologizing for her accusations as he grinned around the mouthpiece and did not stop, merely danced and played with such burning intensity that it swept her back to childhood and she wondered, briefly, if he had taken something besides his regular prescription – something to boost his energy and increase his stamina – or whether he was truly swept away in the joy of sound and creation.

He burned now, as he did then, but this time she wondered if burning out would truly be as beautiful as it had once seemed. A blaze of glory was easily remembered… and easily missed. There was something to be said for fading away.

Something to be said and something to fear as 2-D wound down quickly, panting slightly, disabusing her of the notion that he had taken anything to drive him.

“Too old for this,” he said, grinning as he dropped down into a chair. A joke, but not a joke.

“Too sober, you mean,” she countered. “You’d have to be flying pretty high to go on any longer and the crash would be awful.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, somewhat wistfully.

“I’m sure you’ll get into plenty when the tour parties start up,” she said to mollify him, “but I’d be as happy if you didn’t. You’ll live longer. I… want you to live longer.”

“I dunno. Feels like ages already,” he said, rubbing one eye.

She could not decide whether 2-D was serious or whether his comment was some sort of bleak joke.

“Honestly, you probably _are_ still jet-lagged,” she said, choosing the middle ground. “If you’re tired, go to bed. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

It was not an unreasonable question.

“Fairly sure,” she grinned. “I don’t have any plans other than going out with you.”

“A’s a’right then.”

2-D yawned and stretched before hauling himself to his feet and gathering up his instruments. He did not bring them back to his room, but tucked them away tidily nearby in case they decided to jam a little more the next day. He paused as he passed her and ruffled her hair.

“Dun worry if I make jokes,” he said, although she was certain she had hidden her feelings rather well. “Even bad ones. I’ll be here in the morning too.”

“Okay,” she said. What else could she say?

“‘Night, pun’kin.”

“Oyasumi, niichan,” she called after him as he disappeared up the stairs.

A few moments later, she followed, fetched Katsu some food and fresh water, and turned in for the night.


	13. Chapter 13

Morning dawned with a strange and nervous anticipation.

There was no reason for it, not really. The only plan on the table was lunch at a sushi restaurant, but 2-D’s oblique approach to it – ensuring she did not mind (why would she?), that she liked sushi (of course!), and that she knew _he_ was taking _her_ out (all right…) – had imbued it with an air of mystery and suspense.

It was no longer lunch. It was an event!

The effect was not quite marred by finding 2-D already awake, sleepy-eyed and toying with electronics at the kitchen table.

“'Mornin’, pun’kin,” he said as she walked into the room. “You want an egg?”

There was indeed a bowl of hard-boiled eggs on the counter, still warm from the pot. 2-D ate one sliced up on toast.

“I’ve got it,” she said, suddenly craving the same. “What are you even doing up? You look like you could sleep the rest of the day.”

“Alarm went off,” he told her. “Could have gone back to sleep, I guess, but…” He shrugged. “I wanted eggs.”

He was nervous, she decided. Very slightly, but nervous all the same. Nervous meant restless, no matter how tired he might be.

“Well, if you get tired, go lie down,” she told him. “I won’t mind. You’ve always done better with napping than flat-out sleeping anyway.”

2-D grunted his agreement, wrapped up in whatever it was he was currently doing. She finished preparing her egg on toast, poured herself some juice, and joined him at the table, keeping to the cleaner end.

“I hope all this is going to get put away,” she teased, tugging at a power cord that snaked across the table. “What are you working on?”

“Busted synth,” 2-D said, focused intently on the machine’s interior. “Dad still picks up older models for me to work on. This one’s not so old, but wan’t kept up. I’s all sticky. I think I can fix it, but i’s nothin’ special. I’ll see what sounds it makes an’ if i’s not anything new, I might switch out the sound module, amp it up a bit. Maybe reprogram the frequencies.” He winked at her. “Drive dogs mad.”

“You can’t really,” she scoffed, morbidly curious.

“Did it to scare off the hellhounds at Kong,” he told her.

“We didn’t have hellhounds at Kong,” she protested.

2-D did not lift his head from his work, but looked up at her through a fringe of blue, devilry gleaming in his eyes.

“I know,” he grinned. “Works, dunnit?”

“Now you’re just playing with me,” she accused.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Wouldn’t use it on a real dog anyway. It would hurt their ears and that would be mean.”

2-D looked momentarily thoughtful.

“Could fix one to have low frequencies instead,” he said. “Those can make you nervous. Some horror movies use ‘em in the soundtrack. Not always sub-audible, but almost. Tried it a few times, but we dun use horror movie stuff too much on stage.”

“Ever hit a brown note?”

The question startled a laugh out of 2-D who nearly snorted the tea he was drinking. She had learned long ago that, when in doubt, dirty jokes and bathroom humour were the way to go.

“That dun exist,” 2-D told her. “Low frequency can make you queasy, but a’s about it.”

“Too bad, you could have popped that one out on Murdoc when we started doing shows again.”

“You, me, an’ Russel would all be on stage, too, luv.”

“We could wear ear plugs.”

“Wouldn’t matter. You can’t hear it anyway. An’ the audience’d go spare. You can just imagine.”

2-D spoke with calm reason, but she was much too practised in catching his mischievous expressions to be fooled. His eyes crinkled in amusement, his mouth schooled so as not to grin.

Even so, the look soon smoothed out into something unreadable.

“I wouldn’t do that to Murdoc anyway,” he said. “Not on stage. That would be terrible.”

An irrational gout of anger flared in her chest. She could not fathom where it had come from, but it burned hot and steady. She wanted to snap that it was just a joke, lighten up, she did not really mean it, how could 2-D think it? After all, she cared about Murdoc, in spite of all he had done to her, to Russel, to 2-D, to all of them. After all he had done to frustrate them, hurt them, humiliate them, demean them, objectify them, dehumanize them…

“You know he wouldn’t hesitate to do it to any of us,” she told 2-D calmly. “Especially to you.”

“I know, luv, but not on stage. There’s been enough of that.”

This time, he did lift his head to look at her.

“Dun be mad, pun’kin. There’s no use in it.”

It surprised her how much she hated 2-D in that moment, how much she would have liked to slap him, dragging her nails across his face.

Of all the useless advice to give her! As though anger could be turned off as easily as flipping a switch! It was the kind of advice that made her livid, aching to scream and rant, and it was harder to tamp down, to bury deep in her heart, than it might have been if he had said nothing at all.

“And he’s never made you angry?” she said instead, voice carefully modulated. “In all that time? With all the things he’s done to you…”

“Oh. Yeah,” 2-D told her, returning to his work. “I get angry. I’s why I know what I’m about. Getting angry's not the same as _being_ angry, an’ there’s no use in that. Might as well be angry at the synth ‘cause i’s bunged up. Murdoc’s made of broken bits all strung together. Just like the rest of us.”

She snorted.

“You can’t fix people like you fix your keyboards.”

“Can’t always fix my keyboards,” 2-D admitted, “but sometimes, you put the broken bits together the right way, smooth down the rough edges, you get something new. Maybe not as good as it could be, but you can find a place it’ll fit. There’s always a place it’ll fit.”

She remembered being small and listening to the terrible noises wheezing out of 2-D’s strange, hybrid instruments. How he always seemed so pleased with the results, no matter how discordant. How he always managed to make music with them, in one way or another, weaving abstract melodies into the band’s music or bumping up a weak piece with a scattering of half-tones.

“Is that why you put up with it?” she said, unaccountably morose. “Is that why you always come back? To find a way to make it fit?”

“No, I come back for you, pun’kin. ‘Cause you asked. Or ‘cause I miss you.” 2-D paused, biting his lip. “Or ‘cause Murdoc abducted me. There’s that, too. Although, if I thought you were alive, he wouldn’t have had to. Anyway, once you’re someplace, there’s no sense in not tryin’ to make things fit, yeah?”

“I guess not,” she admitted, her restless feelings only somewhat mollified.

She waited a heartbeat, and then another, and another as she watched 2-D tinker with his machine, disconnecting wires, cleaning contacts, and blowing out the dust until, finally…

“It won’t get better, you know,” she told him.

2-D paused then, only a moment, before inspecting his cleaning job and beginning the momentous job of reassembly.

“Prob’ly not,” he said as he worked, “but I’ve got experience disappearin’ at the right time, now, luv. An’ if I don’t… Well…” He squinted into the interior of the machine and reconnected a wire. “I’m always hurtin’ anyway. A l’il more won’t make the difference.”

The fading memory of 2-D covered in lash-length bruises dragged itself back from the depths of her mind. It made her want to stamp and scream and tell 2-D he was not the only one who hurt when Murdoc lost his temper. That he was not the only one Murdoc had hurt.

It was a stupid, childish impulse and she squashed it down as best she could, but it was hard, so hard to do. She had had an easier time caging her feelings around Murdoc, who had bruised her mind and bruised her heart, places no one else could see. For all the rage she felt, it would not surface when she was near him, not even in the time they had spent alone. Such feelings only seemed to overwhelm her around 2-D – be it for better or for worse – and though she could bring them under control, they left a residue of bitterness that not even a drink of juice could dispel.

It would have bothered her less if 2-D did not always seem to know exactly what she was thinking.

“I’s not a happy thing to hear,” he admitted, absorbed in his work, “so let’s not worry about it today, a’right? I’s just you an’ me today, an’ we’re gonna have sushi, yeah? Can’t be sad about that.” He looked up briefly to give her a wink. “I’m gonna clean up here, and then shower. I’s a good time to get ahead of me if you want a wash.”

“I think I will,” she said, willing her voice into a pleasant tone although anger still burned within her. She left her dishes in the sink and holed herself up in the bathroom, letting the hot water of the shower wash away most of her bad mood. The rest left her as 2-D took her place, his voice drifting into the hallway as he belted out songs from his childhood, trying his best to harmonize with himself. Tension was next to impossible in the face of his giddy good humour.

She dressed and made herself up, being as slow and self-indulgent about it as she dared within the frame of time allotted her. Favourite soaps and fancy lotions did much to lift her spirits, and by the time she was ready, she felt suitably princess-like, deserving of attention and bought lunches in spite of the casual outfit she wore.

Dressy-casual, she reminded herself. It was, after all, an event.

2-D must have felt much the same. When she met him in the hallway, he had put himself together with all the care and precision he might have given a fashion shoot… had the fashion shoot occurred several decades ago.

“Ugh. Uggggh,” she groaned with exaggerated distaste. “You look like someone’s punk-rock dad!”

“Good,” 2-D said, grinning at her and tugging at the collar of his leather jacket.

“I’m embarrassed to be in your presence.”

“Even better.”

“Also very proud,” she said, bumping him with her hip. “You look good, Toochi.”

2-D looked thoughtful.

“I s’pose I can live with that,” he said and snorted laughter as she punched him in the arm.

She waited patiently as 2-D went about his usual going out preparations, checking his pockets to ensure the presence of his keys, his phone, fare for the bus – the restaurant was not terribly far away, he said, but still too far to walk comfortably – cigarettes, a lighter, something tucked in an inner pocket that he would not let her see, but was probably marijuana, his prescriptions, things she was fairly certain were not his prescriptions, but did not look too alarming, and a small, sparkly rock that he claimed was a good luck charm.

“Do you have your wallet?” she said when 2-D appeared satisfied. He sheepishly admitted that he did not and went back to his room to fetch it.

“Fine state, that,” 2-D said as they left the house and made their way toward the bus stop. “Invite you to lunch and forget my wallet. Forget my head next.”

“It happens,” she consoled him. Had she been with Murdoc, she would have suspected that sticking her with the bill had been his plan all along, but she had no doubt that 2-D would have felt properly shamed by such an oversight. He had always been distracted and forgetful. “That’s what I’m here for. That and watching your back.”

“Oh?”

“Your jeans are kind of snug around the bottom and you’re drawing some attention.”

“Oh, issat all,” 2-D drawled somewhat louder than necessary, fronting brass as they approached the street corner and waited for their chance to cross. He jammed his hands in his pockets, not incidentally hiking the hem of his jacket up to his waist, and then, in the voice of the very devil added, “Should take a picture, then. It lasts longer. An’ you can’t hardly tell in a close-up.”

She bit her lip to avoid laughing out loud and discretely pulled out a compact to powder her nose until they were able to cross the street.

“How many cameras?” 2-D murmured to her as they reached the other side.

“Hard to say. Maybe five or six,” she told him. “You’re disgusting. You know that, right?”

“I wan’t the one with the mirror, luv.”

“You’ll be making half of those people question their sexuality.”

“Hm,” 2-D murmured, lost in thought. And then, “I've found that people are flexible, when they want to be. In the head, I mean. Most people are made with preferences, I think, but you can like lookin' at tulips without puttin’em in your rose garden. An’ maybe, sometimes, you know, you keep a little patch just for tulips, even if i’s mostly roses.”

“Or the other way around?” she said, amused, and 2-D nodded, pulling a cigarette from an inner pocket and lighting it. “Is that what you do?”

“I’m an English garden, luv.” 2-D grinned at her and offered her the lit cigarette, which she took with a nod of thanks. He lit a second one before adding, “Still, mainly roses though. They’re awful pretty and have a bit of bite to ‘em.”

“All right, I’m no longer comfortable with the direction of this conversation,” she teased, “and I’m pretty sure no one on the bus wants to hear it either.”

“Their loss. Loads'a stories there.”

She laughed at that, although it also bothered her. She knew that there were stories, but none of the details. Not that she wanted to know details, of course, but it occurred to her, in that moment, that this lack of information cut a gap between herself and 2-D that she could not hope to breach. She had known, even from a young age, that he was a sexual creature, although she did not understand all it entailed. As a teenager, she had been more acutely aware of such things, but mostly avoided the topic on the grounds of propriety. She knew of the parties, she knew of Janice and the possibility of those like her, she knew of the one-night stands. She knew of the e-mails… and that was all.

“Do you… regret any of those stories?” she prodded, blowing out a stream of smoke in an effort to hide her discomfort.

2-D did much the same, seeming to ignore the question entirely until...

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Lots. Not much to be done though. I’ll tell you, if you like. In gen’ral. Life lessons-like. Not the details. An’ not right now—“

“Right now, we’re going out for sushi,” she finished for him and grinned.

2-D did not get a chance to respond as the bus pulled up. He merely winked at her, crushed his cigarette on the pavement, and paid their fares before leading her to the back where they settled in for an uneventful trip.

The restaurant looked pleasant enough, fairly large, but not big enough to be a chain. An electric train made its way around the dining room, carrying colour-coded plates with plastic domes and tiny name cards telling customers what variety of sushi could be found within. 2-D gave his name to the hostess, who led them to a booth, a large one, far too big for two people, in spite of many smaller tables being both available and more reasonable in the face of a lunch rush.

“I’ve invited friends to meet us,” 2-D told her when she asked, his eyes bright with mischief. “You dun know ‘em, but they know you. They’ve been fans of the band forever. Used to come to all the home shows after the first album. Anywhere in England, really. Ginger Sales and her partner, Rina Chandler. Hmm,” he mused, “I suppose I should say ‘wife’ these days, but I always thought ‘partner’ felt more even. They might use ‘wife’ though.”

“You know Ginger Sales?” she said, surprised.

Ginger Sales was not famous in the way people were normally famous, but anyone involved in the entertainment industry, who had spent any time in the London area, knew of Ginger Sales. She was _the_ massage therapist to contact during a tour or a shoot, working only by appointment, at nearly any hour, offering complete discretion. New clients sometimes took this promise to mean a sexual service, but were invariably surprised – sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not – to discover it meant exactly what it should. Ginger Sales did not advertise her client list. Unless someone voluntarily admitted to having visited her, no one would ever know, a boon in an industry where rumours of delays, cancellations, and even imminent death could run rampant at the mere suggestion that someone had sneezed.

She had never made an appointment herself – she had only been back in London a short time – but satisfied customers appeared in most industry settings, whispering recommendations and quietly passing business cards. The key, as far as she could tell, was that Ginger Sales had studied physiotherapy before switching to massage and retained enough knowledge to make recommendations for ongoing problems and provide the names and contact information of equally discrete associates outside of London.

In retrospect, she supposed she should not be surprised that 2-D knew a massage therapist who worked primarily within the entertainment industry. What surprised her was that he knew her well enough to invite her to lunch.

“Known her a while, yeah,” 2-D said, giddy-excited now for reasons she could not explain. He glanced anxiously toward the door and inclined his head slightly when a tallish woman, obviously well endowed, with mounds of ash blonde hair and a neat business suit stepped through the doors and spoke with the hostess who gestured in their direction. A second woman, smallish and athletic, her red hair cut close to the scalp, walked in behind the blonde with two teenagers in tow. She did not realize they were together until the smaller woman linked arms with the blonde, leaned in to say something to her, and then looked toward their booth.

“I’s funny,” 2-D said as he stood to wave at them. “Ginger’s the blonde. I’s Rina a’s the red-head.”

The women gestured to each other a sign of “There he is, how could we have missed him?” before moving toward them, the two teenagers skulking along behind. As they approached, she could see that one of the girls was the spitting image of Ginger, seeming no more than fourteen, but already showing signs of curvaceousness, her hair falling in waves of brown curl. Her expression became friendlier as they drew closer, nervous, but open and curious.

The other was tall, in spite of seeming a similar age. Taller than Rina, nearly taller than Ginger. In a few years she would be slim and willowy with a sway to her hips, but at present she was primarily tall and gangling. Pretty in the face, her slightly wide mouth a point of interest rather than a hindrance. She unconsciously picked at her clothing with long, slim fingers. The hands of a pianist. She shared Rina’s eyes – shrewd, sharp, and direct – but there was devilry there and her hair, cut short, framed her face haphazardly, except where it stuck up at the back in a cowlick.

Oh no, she thought. Oh _no_.

“You remember mum talking about how good the girls were doing?” 2-D said as the group reached the table. He turned the two teenagers to face her crouching a bit between them, one arm around each of their shoulders, and what fine similarities she might have missed at a distance were suddenly, shockingly apparent.

“ _These_ ,” 2-D grinned, “are ‘the girls’.”


	14. Chapter 14

“So Rina and I had been talking about it for a while, but hadn’t taken the plunge, so to speak,” Ginger said, comfortably seated in the circle of 2-D’s left arm. She bit the piece of crab stick she was waving around to emphasize her point. “I was not, shall we say, a fan of turkey basters. But then we took a drive around south, looking at gardens and such things of interest, and we come into Eastbourne where there’s this fairground. Well, Rina begged me to stop. She doesn’t look it, but she likes all sorts of carnivals, especially the gaming booths. Mean arm on her, too, which she does look, but enough of that. So we stopped there and, at the rides, we found Stuart.”

Ginger’s arm snaked up to pat 2-D on the cheek, much to the collective embarrassment of the two girls. Wedged between them, she could almost feel the mortification seep into her.

“Couldn’t believe it, really, that we’d chased a band around on tour until they vanished off the face of the earth, and then here’s the singer himself, taking tickets for the switchback in Eastbourne. So we stopped in for a chat, as one does, and turns out his dad owns the place and the band’s sort of off on their own. A bit of a charmer when you get him alone—“ 2-D blushed furiously at this “—although that’s not really our thing. Still, one likes to look now and then. I have to confess, Rina’s the bigger fan although I always enjoyed your concerts immensely. The first one we went to was our first big date. Next thing we know, we’re chasing you all across the country. You were the sweetest thing on stage, love, and Stuart nearly pretty enough to change a girl’s mind. Don’t make that face, darling, it’ll freeze that way.”

Waves of adolescent affront assaulted her from both sides. It was impossible to tell which girl Ginger meant to address: her own daughter, Brigitte, who listened to the account with almost pearl-clutching terror, or Rina’s daughter, Allison, who seemed on the verge of parent-induced death.

From Ginger’s casual speech, she gathered that the woman had no qualms about sharing personal accounts early and often and could only suppose that it was her presence that increased the embarrassment factor. Realizing who she was, the girls had stared at her in awe and drawn on every ounce of restraint not to scramble into the booth when invited to sit beside her. Rina explained that, having grown up on her music, and knowing she had been a recording artist since the age of ten, the girls found her especially fascinating. That would be enough to make any story of parental intimacy embarrassing in the extreme.

“Anyway, we went back once or twice – as I said, he’s a bit of a charmer when you get him on his own, and free rides don’t hurt, especially if he’s willing to leave you and your love at the top of the wheel for a few moments – and we’d just come away from a chat and were eating chips at one of the tents when a thought occurred to me. I said, Rina, darling, you know you can’t really trust those medical places. You hear about it all the time on the news. Advertise a genius or what not and you end up getting some past employee, who spent his breaks infiltrating the supply, so to speak. We should really consider… because then we’d _know_ , you understand.

“Of course, we initially discussed going about the procedure medically. It was the most rational choice. Still, after a time, we wondered if the old fashioned way might not be best. Then it would be no one’s business but ours. In the end we were leaning toward leaving it to the doctors, but thought we should make sure Stuart was on board before finalizing our own plans.” Ginger’s expression softened somewhat as she reached up to toy with a lock of 2-D’s hair. “We changed our mind though. After we each pitched our terms.”

“Terms?” she prompted, ignoring the waves of dread from the girls on either side of her.

“Well, we wanted custody, of course, Rina and I,” Ginger said. “We wanted a clean bill of health and were prepared to pay for both. All very above board. And Stuart… Stuart said we could have anything we wanted at no cost if we please, please, _please_ accepted his parents as the girls’ grandparents. Even if they never had a legal claim because we took custody, please let them be involved in the girls’ lives.”

The request hung there between them a moment, and then Ginger continued.

“Well, we couldn’t say yes without meeting them, of course. Once, twice, a few times. And once you meet the parents, a clinic seems very cold and impersonal.”

“Mum…” Brigitte half-whined.

“Oh, hush. I won’t give any details. Except the whips. Is that one eel? Rina, darling, grab the eel plate before it goes by.”

“Dad…” Brigitte tried.

“If I couldn’t stop her _before_ you were born, I can’t stop her now,” 2-D told the girl.

“Oh, come on. It’s hardly a secret, people do it all the time,” Ginger commented as Brigitte and Allison tried to melt into their seats. “We knew it would be a bit of roulette, but it is in any case. We hoped for more musical talent in the family. Rina plays piano, you know. Only as a hobby, although she’s a fair hand. We had to weigh our chances at Stuart’s singing voice versus our chances at his speaking voice.”

“I’s not that bad,” 2-D said as the two girls tried to cease their existence as physical entities.

“You’re a Cockney pterodactyl, darling,” Ginger told him, much to 2-D’s amusement.

“The girls are beautiful, Gin. There’s no need to bring gambling into it.”

Rina’s quiet and sure pronouncement brought a calming effect to Ginger’s conversation.

“They are,” Ginger agreed, her voice gaining a gooey, misty quality that did nothing to alleviate the discomfort of either teenager, “and so very talented. Brigitte has been a part of the youth orchestra for years—“

“So’s Allie,” Brigitte insisted.

“Both you and Allie have been part of the youth orchestra for years,” Ginger amended, “but you’ve also been taking voice lessons and playing with the school band. Not a marching band, mind,” Ginger said with mock confidentiality, “but a band like yours. Extra-curricular. For students. Not quite so rowdy. I wasn’t keen on it at first, I must admit. That was one of our stipulations, after all. No mixing with the music scene. Rina and I have both been there and we know what people get up to back stage. It’s one of the reasons we asked for a clean bill of health.”

“Mum,” Brigitte groaned. “Noodle doesn’t want to hear about all that.”

“She doesn’t have to, darling, she was there.”

“Actually, I think I was in bed most nights,” she assured the girls and their mothers. “I stayed up late for the set, but was put to bed right after. The boys are boys – messy and rude – but they always took care of me. I don’t think every musician would have been as nice about it. It really is best if you practise hard now and come into it as an adult. That way, you won’t have to depend on other people to look out for you. I was lucky. Not everyone is.”

“You see?” Ginger told her daughter before continuing her story. “We were even wary about this lunch date at first, but Rina and I discussed it and agreed that you might be sympathetic and discreet. Stuart certainly vouches for you.”

“I promise not to drag them off to any industry parties,” she grinned. “What kind of music does your band play, Brigitte?”

“Oh, mixed stuff,” Brigitte said before her mother could take over. “No hard rock or anything like that. The school wouldn’t like it. Mostly soft rock and pop, some stuff that’s a bit like American country and a bit not. I play guitar and sing and sometimes do keyboard, but mostly guitar. Only, I’ve had trouble with some of the music they want to play because all my lessons have been in the classic style and that makes it hard to play rock music as loosely as they want.”

“Not impossible though,” 2-D offered as a reassurance. “Noodle can do it.”

“I can,” she agreed, giving the girl a smile, “although that makes it sound easier than it is. I trained a very long time to be able to play guitar and have a lot more experience than you. I think it’s really good to know the classic way of playing though. It’s easier to experiment when you have a solid background than learning to be disciplined after the fact.”

“I guess,” Brigitte agreed reluctantly. “I still find the different kinds of singing easier to learn. We have a competitive voice program through the school. I do solo _and_ choir.”

“Does your sister compete as well?” she prompted.

“Allie was blessed with her mother’s voice,” Ginger interjected, suggesting that, while Allie might never win a singing competition, she would also never be mistaken for a pterodactyl, Cockney or otherwise. “But she excels at piano. She’s tried a few other instruments, but seems to prefer it.”

“I can play guitar too,” Allison insisted, as if to impress her, “but I’d really like to play an organ someday. One of the big ones with the pipes. Not like, for a job or anything, but to try it. I like the physics of them.”

“Oh, yes,” Ginger agreed in the tone of one who was never much into book learning and found another’s interest in it bemusing. “Allie is also very good with physics. Rina’s father was a mathematician, you know.”

“Is,” Rina said. “He hasn’t died.”

“Well, no, but he _is_ retired. He doesn’t _teach_ anymore.”

“Except Allie.”

“Except Allie.”

“Your grandma Rachel said you’re doin’ something for school, but she wan’t too clear on it,” 2-D said, reaching behind Rina to snag a spicy avocado roll. “Y’ought to tell me an’ Noodle about it.”

“Um, it’s just a science project,” Allison said. “We got the option of doing one for the fair instead of some other projects.”

Allison picked at her fingers as she spoke, eyes bright, but words evasive, as if afraid to say too much or talk too long. She was no doubt accustomed to bored audiences and Ginger’s room-filling presence was certainly overwhelming. Rina made encouraging noises, but they were not enough.

She smiled at all the little mannerisms she recognized in the girl: the shifting, the hums, and especially the twisting fingers… 2-D when he feared touching someone he shouldn’t, or touching too often, or when it would be unwelcome.

She wormed her fingers into Allison’s hand, giving it a squeeze to tell her touching was allowed, and then spoke the formula that had served her well in the past.

“What project are you working on? I’d _love_ to hear about the things that interest you.”

“Okay, well, okay, it’s about acoustic levitation, right?” Allison said, clutching at her arm with thinly veiled excitement. “That’s how you can use sound waves to make things float. And you can use it in all kinds of ways in labs to handle dangerous elements or to move around tiny parts that could get damaged if they were touched from the outside. Doctors can even use it for some things if they don’t want to cut people open. Just the moving small bits, I mean. They aren’t going to levitate parts of bodies, I don’t think.”

“I should hope not,” Ginger said, but a brief glance in her direction was enough to warn her not to interrupt.

“Anyway, I wanted to build a machine to make things float,” Allison continued. “I found instructions on how to do it, even if it will only float polystyrene balls, but the parts are too expensive. I need a sine wave generator, for one. I mean, you can get sine waves on the internet, but a computer or tablet isn’t strong enough and doesn’t focus it right and I wouldn’t want to just leave my tablet there anyway. I need a portable one, but the special machines are too expensive. I mean, only a bit more than a hundred pounds, but mum says that’s too much for a school project, especially if we have to buy all the other parts too, like speakers and an amplifier.”

She wondered vaguely if the ‘mum’ in question was Ginger and whether offering to purchase the items for Allison would embarrass 2-D, but 2-D, it seemed, had thoughts of his own.

“Could just build one,” he said. “I got all the bits.”

“Build one?” Allison looked startled, but no less so than Ginger, cementing her impression that, for all Ginger’s affection towards 2-D, she had never considered him the brightest bulb in the pack. Rina, on the other hand, merely fished around in her bag and pulled out a pen just as 2-D grabbed some paper napkins and cast about for one.

“Yeah, I muck about with my keyboards all’a time an’ a’s all a synth is, innit?” 2-D said, sketching something out. “It dun really make sounds. It makes waves that imitate sounds. Like a piano, or guitar, or trumpet an’ the like. Sine wave is one tone, right?”

“Yes,” Allison said cautiously.

“Right. I know what they do, not what they’re called. In a machine, they look like this.”

2-D turned his sketch around to show a simple circuit.

“A’s just the sound though,” he cautioned. “If you wanna play with the frequency, you gotta put more bits in. Prob’ly need it pretty high, yeah?”

“The instructions say about 25 kilohertz.”

“Easy. So you get that an’ somethin’ that switches frequencies down to where most people can hear it. That way you can show where it starts to work.” 2-D mused on this a little. “The box an’ speakers an’ such I dun have at home right now, but I’ve got stuff at your granddad’s an’ anything I dun have he’s got or can get from park scrap. If you send me the list of parts you need, I can bring what I’ve got to your grandma’s one weekend an’ I’ll show you how to put the sound stuff together. You can show me how the other bits fit. You’re prob’ly better at that part than me. Just tell me what weekend you can visit grandma Rachel and I’ll meet you there. Did she give you my new number?”

She watched as 2-D and Allison exchanged contact information and turned to Brigitte, who looked a bit bewildered by the conversation. Bewildered also, perhaps, by the unexpected fount of electronic knowledge pouring out of a father she had no doubt been raised to view as valued for his stage presence more than his mind.

“If you want to bring your guitar to your grandmother’s,” she told the girl, “perhaps I can give you some lessons while Allison works on her project.”

Brigitte gaped at her. “You would do that?”

She grinned.

“Of course I would,” she said. “2-D is like a brother to me. That makes you my niece. What kind of aunt wouldn’t give lessons to her niece?”

The comment prompted a flurry of excitement between the girls, who had obviously never considered the fact that having 2-D for a father meant having an auntie Noodle too.

“Well that is very generous,” Ginger said, cautious but impressed by the offer. She was, after all, a professional musician that Ginger had watched grow up on stage. “But don’t let the girls steal all your time. You have your career to attend to, and…”

Ginger hesitated, obviously uncertain how to phrase the rest of her comment.

“It’s all right,” she reassured the woman. “I won’t get the girls involved with anything that isn’t pre-approved. I get along very well with Rachel Pot and I can meet them there when they visit. In the meantime,” she added conspiratorially to Brigitte and Allison, putting an arm around each of them, “I think we should relieve this place of their stash of green tea ice cream. What do you think?”

The enthusiastic agreement she received made her feel as much of a rock star as any encore she had received on stage.


	15. Chapter 15

“Not so brassy once you’ve had a cuddle, are you?”

Leaning against Rina’s van, 2-D sighed and uttered a soft moan of contentment as Ginger dug her thumbs into the muscles at his shoulder.

“Honestly,” she huffed as Rina looked on, amused. “I don’t know how someone who looks to be made of elastic can always be so stiff. No cheek!” she warned as 2-D’s eyes crinkled at the corners and a slow grin crept over his face. “It’s a serious issue. Not much to be done here, mind. You should make an appointment. I’ll be able to work all your kinks out at the office.”

“That’ll take a while,” 2-D replied. “I’ve got a lot of kinks.”

“I told you,” Ginger said, tweaking his ear. “No cheek! You’re a terrible trouble maker. It’s your fault I’ve got the clients I do.”

“Is it?” She looked up at Ginger from where she sat on the floor of the van, Allison stretched out on the seat above her and Brigitte standing over her, watching the positioning of her fingers as they walked across the girl’s guitar.

“Yes,” Ginger said in mock disapproval. “He and his parties.”

She ran her fingers through 2-D’s hair and gave his back a pat, signalling that he should straighten up and put his jacket back on. He did so and stretched almost sleepily.

“You see, I was in the midst of studying massage when we ended up in Eastbourne,” Ginger said. “It worked out well enough as Stuart let me practise on him and he had enough ills to put me to the test. I think I did all right though, didn’t I, darling?”

“Yeah,” 2-D said, his expression melting into melancholy. “It made a lot of difference. I dun think anyone even suggested I try that before.” The cheeky grin returned, almost by force, and he added, “You liked it better than the rest.”

“Well, it was of more practical use to me at the time, although ‘the rest’ probably fetched me the better part in the end.”

Ginger looked tenderly at Brigitte, who uttered a faint moan of teenaged anguish.

“In any event,” Ginger continued, “I finished the course while carrying Brigitte, set up an office shortly after she was born, and did a fair bit of trade. I suppose it was a year later, maybe more, just before your new album came out, that I had a number of calls come in from musicians. They had shows coming up and wanted an appointment for the day after or for the morning before to limber up. The first couple were locals, so I didn’t think much about it, but then I had an American, and then another, someone from France… People who were not really repeat business. I mean, they might have reason to seek out a local massage therapist, but with the number of practitioners available in the city, there was no particular reason they should all be calling _me_. I might have chalked it up to the first couple of clients giving good word of mouth, but many of the calls came in before I received them, so that didn’t work. I had put out a few small ads and flyers, but mainly local, so I couldn’t believe that all these people were seeing my little notices.

“Anyway, I got curious and asked one American who came by. I said, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how did you come to hear about me? The man said to me, he said, Well, I was at this party and a bunch of us were pissing and moaning, pardon the language, about the strain of performing on stage. Pulled muscles, sore joints, that sort of thing, and none of us getting any younger. And then this guy comes up to us. Tall, skinny, eyes like the devil, high as a kite. He comes up to us and says, You _know_ , I get the worst headaches. Always have. And I know this bird. She’s a massage therapist, and she done me. I don’t mean sexually. I mean, I shagged her, but she done the massage part _professionally_ and I didn’t have headaches for _weeks_. I can give you her number, if you like. It’s her office number. Not her personal number. She won’t shag you, she’s a lesbian.”

She burst into laughter at Ginger’s near perfect imitation of a younger 2-D in a fit of distraction, much to Brigitte and Allison’s dismay and discomfort. Even 2-D looked properly embarrassed, but only a little, mischief still crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“So,” Ginger pressed on, gratified to receive the reaction she desired, “I thought to myself; tall, skinny, odd eyes, and no filter. Must be Stuart. I asked the man, I said, this bloke of yours, was he a singer called 2-D? And he said, I don’t know! I was afraid to ask! But I thought, if you’re keeping the dead alive, you must be good!”

She laughed even harder, much to 2-D’s consternation.

“Well, a’s not fair,” 2-D said, adjusting his jacket in mock affront.

“It’s perfectly fair and I’m perfectly grateful,” Ginger said. “I think every single musician you talked to came to see me and I must have suited them because the trend continued from there. And because of that, we must be off. I have a late appointment. Come here, you silly goose.”

Ginger pulled 2-D into a hug that radiated affection and warmth, and then grabbed his bottom with both hands.

“Rina, darling, stop exercising. He’s got a better bum than you!”

“Mum,” Brigitte whined.

“I love your mother dearly, but she has the flattest behind in England,” Ginger told her, gesturing to the girls to put away the instruments and climb into the van. “Now, hop!”

“Do I get a hug today?” 2-D asked them as the two girls sorted themselves out.

They seemed a little uncertain at first – hugging parents in public was embarrassing enough without Ginger’s show of it – but Allison finally led the charge, jumping out of the vehicle to throw her arms around him. Brigitte fell in behind her and 2-D looked as though he might cry as they shared a quick squeeze. However, he got himself together in time for the girls to pull away, somewhat flustered, and scramble to get into the van.

Rina saved her goodbye for last. She gave the woman some space, taking leave of the girls and promising to see them again at their grandmother’s, glancing surreptitiously to where Rina spoke with 2-D in low tones, apparently asking him questions that he answered almost shyly. She reached up to stroke his cheek, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear, and then pulled him down for a hug, much briefer and more chaste than Ginger’s.

For one, white-hot moment, she felt wildly jealous. _She_ was supposed to be the good thing, the best thing. _She_. Not these outsiders… These usurpers that she had only just met…

But for all that she could be warm and soft and make better the hurts of the world, it was Rina, quiet and emphatic, who had claws. Rina and Ginger. Brigitte and Allison. Long talons that drove deep into the heart and clung for all they were worth.

And 2-D loved them, deeply and fiercely. Not romantically, but as they were: a family unit. The kind he had grown up with. The kind he could never have, but was honoured to be a part of in whatever small way he could.

“We could give you a ride,” Rina said, as they wandered back toward the vehicle.

“Thanks,” 2-D said, “but I have another errand. Let me know when you’ll be at mum’s. I’ll find the spare parts an’ bring ‘em along.”

Rina agreed and closed the side door on the girls, who waved at them excitedly from the van’s interior, and then hopped up into the driver’s seat beside Ginger. Both women waved at them as they pulled out of their site and left the carpark. 2-D watched after them for several moments, and then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting two and passing one on to her as he headed toward the bus stop.

“Toochi, they’re beautiful,” she said after a moment.

“They’re brilliant,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I was afraid they wouldn’t be. I was really… um. Sorry.” He grinned at her. “I’m afraid I used you as a bit of a carrot. Teenaged girls dun always want to be around their dad, especially if he’s not always there ‘cause of tours and whales and things. But, you know… a famous singer who was making albums at their age…”

“It’s fine,” she said, smiling fondly, “but you don’t give yourself enough credit." When 2-D said nothing to that, she added, “I can’t believe you kept them a secret all this time.”

“They’re your secret, now, too,” 2-D said. “I wan’t supposed to tell anyone inna band, but I asked if I could bring you and Rina and Ginger finally decided it was a’right. I dun think it would matter if Russ knew, but the more people know, the harder a secret is to keep an’ Murdoc… He wouldn’t really _do_ anything to ‘em, but he would use ‘em if he thought he needed to. I’s what he does, use people. An’ I understand why he does it, but it dun make it right, an’ the girls dun need that.”

“I won’t tell,” she promised. “I won’t. But you know that anyone who knows you and sees Allison isn’t going to be fooled for a minute.”

“They dun have to be fooled. They just dun have to know,” 2-D replied. “One day the girls’ll be old enough to decide for themselves, but for now… I want ‘em to be safe.”

They were early for the bus, so 2-D dropped down on the bench, looking worn and somewhat drunk.

“You had too much sake,” she teased, sitting down beside him. “You should have taken Rina up on her offer.”

“No,” 2-D replied shaking his head. “I dun like to get in their space, you know? They have their routine. I meet ‘em at mum’s or invite ‘em out somewhere. Go to concerts and recitals when I can. I’m glad they accepted to let mum and dad be grandparents, but I want ‘em to feel like a family, the four of them. Not like I can come in at any time and buss’em all up. They can call me any time I’m in the country and I can call them, but we meet away from their space. I’s cleaner that way.”

“Well, the girls are old enough to understand the difference between nuclear and extended families,” she told him. “I hope you can spend more time with them. Teach them things you know about music and sound. You blew Allison away completely, you know. You’re her new hero.”

“A’s a bit strong, I think,” 2-D said, but smiled as he did so. “I’d like to get that chance though. They’re the only one I’ll have.”

“You’re not that old,” she said. “Men are fertile longer than women. You could have more kids.”

“I got a vasectomy once I knew the girls were healthy,” 2-D replied, focused entirely on his cigarette. “You can reverse ‘em, I suppose, but there’s no reason since me an’ Rina an’ Ginger have our arrangement. So… No more worries. No more l’il ones.”

“No more e-mails,” she said unthinkingly.

It was not until 2-D froze with the cigarette between his lips that she realized he did not know the extent of what she knew.

“Murdoc was pretty loud about it,” she explained. “Not about the details, really, but about the fact that they existed and why.” She inhaled deeply and bit the bullet. “I always kind of wondered, to be honest. It didn’t seem much like you. To leave someone hanging or to not talk about it, I mean.”

Her comment hung in the air a while before 2-D ashed his cigarette and sighed.

“Hard to talk about what you dun think about,” he said, a sour grin creeping over his face. “Do you think a’s bad? Part of me thinks i’s bad. The rest of me remembers that none of ‘em really wanted to talk to me afterward. Not that it was really their fault, but… Why should I be the one to push it?

“If you want to know what happened, i’s simple. I’m not really very nice. I told you. I’m selfish. Thoughtless. I try not to be so much, but i’s still true. I dun have enough of me to focus on anyone else. So, when I got back to Eastbourne, all the rock star party habits came with me. But Eastbourne’s not a rock star town. The girls dun automatically assume they need protection, not like scene parties. An’ I dun think automatically at all, so…”

2-D shrugged.

“I wan’t very choosey either when I came back,” he admitted. “Any port in a storm, yeah? An’ I was all storm. I wanted…”

He seemed about to elaborate, but shook his head and moved on.

“Anyway, I wan’t careful an’ neither were they and the first letter scared me. It came to me through the park ‘cause she din’t know me any better’n I knew her. I got panicky an’ tried to ignore it an’ the ones that came after. Some from the same person, some not. Finally, one came from a lawyer an’ my dad opened it ‘cause it was all official-looking an’ he din’t read the name properly. A’s when he went spare. I dun think I ever seen him angry before. I’s always mum that gets mad. It wan’t ‘cause it happened neither, just ‘cause I was ignoring the letters. He yelled at me that I ought to be better’n that. That he din’t raise me to leave l’il ones maybe wantin’ and what would mum say if I were ignorin’ her grandkids. Even if she never got to see ‘em, they would be, you know? A’s when I got the idea. To ask ‘em, I mean.”

2-D paused then, concentrating on his cigarette. Part of her felt she should say something, but she feared derailing 2-D’s train of thought. If he were distracted now, it was unlikely he would ever share the story again.

“So, dad helped set me up with payin’ the support bills. I wan’t very good at it. Forgetful, mostly. Not intentional. I always paid ‘em when I remembered or when someone reminded me. After we set it up, I tried to contact the girls direct, you know? To ask ‘em if they would let my folks be grandparents to the l’il ones, even if they had custody. The first ones wouldn’t. Can’t blame ‘em, really, the way I treated ‘em, but there were a couple more after and they said no too. Most just wanted the payments an’ a’s all. I dun think it was a scam like Murdoc thinks, not even those that were lying or wrong in the end. I think we were just not very careful down in Eastbourne.

“Anyway, all the payments are automated now. I dun ever forget anymore, so no letters to remind me. No contact at all, ‘cept mum calls me once a year if I’m around and I go over and write holiday cards, send ‘em to the last known address. She does it on her own if I’m not in the country. ‘You dun know me, but…’ Just a little note, says who I am. At least one comes back ‘return to sender’, but not all. I like to think their mums keep ‘em, even if they dun see them. One day they might be older and wanna know, yeah?

“An’ then Rina and Ginger showed up, an’ recognized me, an’ hung around the rides havin’ a chat. I din’t realize until it happened that I missed it. Chatting, I mean. You get a reputation, you know, and there’s this expectation that you’ll behave a certain way and do certain things, and so you do ‘em, an’ i’s all quick jaunts behind the sheds, even if you dun feel like it. Din’t even know you could just not feel like it until Rina an’ Ginger came by and I was relieved they were a couple and din’t expect anything from me. I knew ‘em from the home shows an’ they knew all about the band, so it was nice.”

He huffed in quick succession, a quiet, contemplative laugh.

“I almost felt betrayed when they asked me to be a dad, you know? Then they said it would all be very clinical, so that was a’right, an’ I took a chance an’ asked. When they met mum an’ dad an’ said yes, it almost made it worth goin’ to the doctor’s and doin’ all the tests. An’ then we got kinda close, so…”

2-D shrugged then, indicating a blank in the narrative that he had no intention of filling and she had no desire to hear.

“I’s funny,” he said. “The parts you’d think would be easy were hard, but all the rest was easy. I stayed with them a bit an’ Rina cooked for me – she’s a nutritionist, you know – an’ Ginger did all her massage stuff on me, an’ I fixed things around their place, an’ it was just, really… nice. I gave up custody, ‘cause that was the deal, but they kept in touch with mum an’ dad like they promised and were really good at letting me see the girls almost any time I wanted, as long as I called ahead an’ made arrangements.” He paused. “I wan’t always good at that either.”

The memory surged in her, breaking the surface of her thoughts, bringing with it a torrential downpour and 2-D sick and sad and despairing of his worth, but with determination enough to stand up to Murdoc’s questioning.

“You went during the recording of ‘Demon Days’, didn’t you?” she said.

2-D nodded.

“I got mad when Murdoc said something about children born in Eastbourne being stupid. Mad an’ kinda scared. I tried not to think about it, but it wouldn’t go away, so I ran off to see the girls one day, without letting Rina or Ginger know I was coming. Ginger wanted to throw me out ‘cause they had two babies to care for and had their routine an’ all, but Rina told her to let me have a go, so I took her place with the girls while she watched an’ coached an’ I tried to follow their schedule. I dun think I was _bad_ , but I din’t want to take too many pills around ‘em, an’ I couldn’t smoke near ‘em, an’ by the third day I was sick an’ sore an’ knackered an’ I lost the plot completely. Rina had to lock me up inna loo with her until I was better. She’s a real mum, you know, an’ talked me around an’ then said a load’a things I din’t like to hear ‘bout responsibility an’ maturity an’ the like. She tried to drive me back to the studio, but I said I din’t know who was there an’ made her drop me off in town. Then I had trouble gettin’ back ‘cause I din’t have money for a car, but hitched a bit an’ got near enough. I stayed sulky about it for a while too. Shows Rina was right, I guess. A’s why I dun like getting into their space and muckin’ up their routines. ‘Specially when they’re so good at meetin’ me elsewhere.”

She did not know quite what she should say. There seemed to be nothing, and everything, with no in-between.

2-D contemplated his cigarette, smoked nearly down to the filter, and stubbed it out on the side of the bench.

“I guess a’s everything,” he said. “A’s all of it. All a’s important anyway. You dun need the small details, I think.”

She put her own cigarette out and tossed away the butt. Then she gathered 2-D’s hand in hers.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, toying with his fingers. “Thank you for _trusting_ me. And if you want my opinion, I don’t think you’re bad. _Or_ selfish. Not really. No more than anyone else.”

She squeezed his hand and he withdrew it to stroke her hair, a reassuring gesture bestowed upon her often as a child, and a sign that she was not to mother him, that he had made up his mind on the matter long ago. She wished he had not. He looked terribly sad, and every moment of his age.

Suddenly, twelve years seemed an unspannable breach in time.

The bus came before she could say anything more. They chose seats near the back and she took 2-D’s hand again, holding it loosely, offering what reassurance she could. She leaned against his shoulder and, in time, he rested his head against hers, dozing lightly, done in by food, drink, and a rather exciting afternoon. She was not Rina, or Ginger, or Brigitte, or Allison, but she took comfort in the fact that she could offer comfort of her own and stroked the back of 2-D’s hand with her thumb until they reached their stop.


	16. Chapter 16

“Movie tonight?” she asked as 2-D wandered into the kitchen. Freshly changed into track pants and a t-shirt, he was no longer a punk rock dad, only her sweet and mussy sibling. “Murdoc and Russel will be back tomorrow night, so it’s our last chance to marathon undisturbed.”

“I’d watch some films. You want some of the horror ones I brought from mum’s? I sorted ‘em out an’ there’s some good ones. An’ by good, I mean terrible.”

She grinned.

“Those are the best ones,” she informed him as he took a beer out of the fridge, gave it a calculating look, and exchanged it for a cola. “I always liked the films that had real thought behind them, but no talent. They’re more funny than scary, but you can really feel the love and dedication behind them, so they’re never really boring.”

“If a’s the case, then I got something special for you,” 2-D said, collapsing in a chair. “I’mma miss the pull-out sofa though. Makin’ a nest of it was nice.”

“If you think I let Murdoc get away with not having a pull-out sofa, even in a temporary home, you are sadly mistaken,” she told him. “Are we going to want real food tonight or just snacks?”

“I’m still full’a sushi.” It amused her that 2-D sounded appropriately sluggish. “I think snacks are a’right. We can get pizza later if we really, really want to.”

“Well, we’ve rice wraps and I’ve shredded some vegetables. We’ve also got bags of crisps, and pretzels, and popcorn, so I doubt we’ll go hungry. Do we want bowls?”

“Not unless you want some,” 2-D said, scrolling through his phone. “I’m not fancy.”

He fired off a brief text and she smiled.

“Did the girls already set a date to meet you at your mother’s?”

2-D shook his head.

“Manuel had a question about some sheet music.”

“Manuel?” The name was familiar and she mused on it a moment before placing it. “Wasn’t he the one who had you read poetry to him?”

“Yeah,” 2-D agreed. “Bought me my phone, too.”

“Wow. Did all of Maria’s girls get expensive presents?”

“It wan’t a present,” 2-D told her. “It was payment. He’s collected loads of sheet music. Says i’s another sort of poetry. When he found out I can sing and play, he wanted me to do some for him so he’d have a record of how they sound. I wan’t working in the market anymore an’ I still owed Maria money for the medicines, so he paid her off as part of the advance. She din’t much mind ‘cause I’d been a bit of a nuisance with bein’ hungry an’ antsy all’a time. Healthy people with proper medicine dun sleep so much an’ are always doin’ things that need energy, so they eat more. An’ if they’re tall… they eat a lot.”

He grinned at her sheepishly, but she just smiled her encouragement. It was good that he was healthy and better that he was taking care of himself.

“Manuel din’t mind and liked cake, so that took care’a that. Once we agreed on a set amount of music, he paid Maria and bought me the phone as an advance, an’ then helped me put my schedule on it. I called mum to give her my number, but stayed in Mexico to do extra music ‘cause it was nice an’ I had nowhere else to be. But then I heard you were back an’ I wanted to go home, so I got mum to send money for the plane. I promised Manuel a copy of the new album when it was done. So, you know… all that stuff I said about havin’ sex right before leavin’ wan’t true. Manuel’s not like that.”

“You should have had him buy you clothes,” she teased.

“Oh, he got me a couple of things, but I mostly wore a bathing costume so I could sit inna sun,” 2-D told her, “‘cept when I was on the piano.”

“Well, that explains the colour,” she said, coming up behind him to cross her arms and rest them on his shoulder. She pillowed her head there and smiled as he reached up to ruffle her hair. “You know, you get into the strangest of mundane adventures.”

“So you say,” 2-D replied, “but I dun know any one else’s adventures. No one will say, apart from Murdoc, who just rants about ‘industry wankers’ lockin’ him up an’ no real explanation. You mentioned shippin’ yourself from Japan, but what did you _do_?”

“I don’t really like talking about it too much, I guess, although I do like to hear what everyone else was up to,” she said. “I suppose it’s only fair that I tell you a bit about it.”

She fetched herself a drink and sat at the table, glossing over her ocean crossing with Russel to tell stories about her time with Chiyoko, the pearl diver, and her accidental unleashing of the demon Maazu. She highlighted points of her trip across Japan, bolstered by the way 2-D hung on every word, laughing and looking dismayed or angered at appropriate moments.

“A’s brilliant!” 2-D said, his voice filled with pride for her, but his expression slowly fell. “So you really were at Point Nemo? I thought you were. I thought I _saw_ you, but I din’t know for sure. My room was so far down… But I thought you were dead, luv. For a long time, I thought you were, even if I din’t want to believe it. Russ, too. I’s why we had to leave. It hurt too much to stay. But we wouldn’t have gone if we thought you were a’right. If we thought we could help you. What happened? Why won’t you say?”

The fury and frustration she tried so hard to avoid bubbled up from the depths of her, escaping the well she had so carefully crafted for them. Every moment from the _El Mañana_ video shoot onward was a tender spot on her soul. A blaze of anger ran up her neck and nearly flooded her cheeks, but she tamped it back down – a feat that was becoming more and more difficult over time – and offered 2-D a smile. A tight smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I suppose it’s something for me,” she told him. “When you got back to Kong Studios after running away to visit the girls, you told me that. That there were some things just for you. This is one of those things.”

“Ah,” 2-D murmured wisely. “I feel like you have a lot of those things, but I understand. Dun be mad.”

Her fury returned, hotter than ever, but she buried it in a sip from her glass and composed herself.

“You know, most people would say that nothing makes them angrier than having someone tell them not to be angry,” she said.

“A’s ‘cause they _are_ angry an’ dun like it,” 2-D told her, toying with his phone, seemingly oblivious to her rage. “They think they oughtn’t get angry, but they’re wrong. I’s a’right to get angry in bits like that. You maybe get snappish and huffy and there are strong words, but you know the anger’s there, an’ you know _why_ i’s there, an’ you take care of it, an’ it goes away. I’s bein’ angry a’s bad ‘cause you put the bits away in all the little pockets in your head. Then you forget they’re there, but not really, ‘cause they bump against all the other bits in your head. Some angry bits and some not. An’ then you dun know _why_ you’re angry anymore or what to do about it ‘cause i’s filling up your brain and i’s so _heavy_ , like a jacket full of bearings, ‘an sorting out which bits to be rid of to make it lighter is so _hard_ … I’s just easier not to. Then being angry is just who you _are_ ‘cause you got so much in you. So really, i’s much better to _get_ mad, not be mad, I think. A’s what I mean by it. If hearin’ it makes you mad, then you ought to get mad, just for a bit. Then you’ll feel better.”

She wanted to strangle him. She felt stripped and flayed beneath a spotlight and her every instinct was to deny, to explain that this was _different_ , that there were things that _could not_ be shared under any circumstance. That they were _for her_ as he himself had defined it.

“I don’t think I ever thought about it that way,” she said instead.

“It can get that way with the things just ‘for you’, too,” 2-D said, offering a sympathetic smile. “There were lots of times I wanted to tell you about the girls. I’s hard to be proud, an’ happy, an’ scared with no one to tell. An’ I thought you might like to know ‘em and I knew they’d like to know you, if it were my choice to make. But even if Rina an’ Ginger thought it was okay, I dunno if I would have then. They were too small. An’ if people knew… Well, no one would’ve had to kidnap me to get me to the island at Point Nemo. Not when they could use the girls. When I heard you were alive, though, I spent some time with me and knew I had to tell you for sure, if Rina and Ginger let me. I think i’s good that they know you an’ I dun feel so scared about it anymore ‘cause I know you would look out for them if you had to.”

“Even if I didn’t,” she assured him, relieved to be on safer ground. “‘Spent some time with me’ is a funny thing to call decision making though. I’ve heard you use it before. I thought it was like meditation.”

2-D half-shrugged, finished the dregs of his soda, and stood up to stash the bottle for later recycling.

“Maybe it is, an’ maybe it isn’t. I dunno,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I just talk to myself, but not in my head, thinking things over an’ over. Like I’m really talking to someone else, ‘cept all the talking parts are done by me. So, if I’m of two minds, each side gets to talk, an’ when I talk for one side, I only talk _from_ that side, you know? Ask questions of my other side an’ then only answer from _that_ side. Or pretend I’m someone else an’ say what I think they would say. It helps, sometimes, hearing it said out loud. Brains aren’t very smart, not really. They think all the noises they make are sounds, but they’re not. Just static. You’ve got to hear the sounds in your ears, an’ then they make sense. If you ask yourself if all the things that are ‘just for you’ are really still ‘just for you’, you might be surprised. Then you can clear some out before they get too heavy.”

She sighed, exasperated that the conversation had come around to her and her silence again. She could not tell if 2-D was being willfully ignorant of her desire to side-step a conversation she found infuriating and uncomfortable, or truly thought his philosophies were helpful. She supposed they could be, now and then, but this was definitely not the time.

“That is the _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever heard,” she huffed. A mild lie, but the look of shocked dismay it netted her shamed her.

“Ah… um… oh,” 2-D stammered, sounding hurt. “I… Well, i’s not something for ever’one, I suppose. I din’t mean it ought to be. I’s just something that… that really helped me. So, if you dun like the idea, I… I’m a’right with that, but… I would like if, maybe, you could not…”

“Call it stupid?” she said, properly regretful and angry she should feel so. True that 2-D’s request not to belittle his coping mechanisms was perfectly reasonable, and true that she felt ashamed because she knew it, and true as well that she had had every intention of hurting him – only a very little bit – in the hopes of putting him off the topic and had failed badly in the heat of her anger, but that was no reason to be bombarded with emotions when all she wanted was a quiet evening watching movies. “Finding the thought ridiculous doesn’t mean I find _you_ ridiculous.”

“I know. I’s just… it was _my_ thought—“

“And so everything’s automatically about you?”

“No, but you din’t want to talk about things, an’ I wanted to respect that. Then you commented on what I said, so I thought it was safe to go on. You could have just _told_ me it was upsetting.”

“I have to ‘tell’ you now?” she scoffed. 2-D only stared at her, bewildered. “Aren’t you the one who thinks he knows what I’m feeling and ought to poke me with a stick? ‘Dun be mad.’ ‘Dun be scared’,” she mimicked and 2-D flinched just a little.

“I wan’t trying to read your mind,” he said. “I’s only suggestions. Hypothetical-like.”

“And it’s disappointing if I don’t respond the way you think I will?”

2-D eyed her oddly, eyebrows quirked in question.

“No,” he said cautiously, “but you aren’t mean with me usually. Not intention’ly. So I thought—“

“Because I don’t have to be everything you think I am,” she continued, disregarding him.

It was not something she meant to do. She understood what he was trying to say. She understood that it was unfair to call something that was so much a part of him ‘stupid’ when so many other people already called him similar things, especially since she did not believe it herself. It was a petty act, done in anger. She did not believe his methods applied to her particular plight, but that was no reason to insult him. In other circumstances, she would have apologized and restated her opinion more clearly. She was certain, had that been the case, that 2-D would have made sympathetic noises and left the conversation for another time.

In these circumstances, her anger had already boiled over once, and then a second time, and it seemed impossible to cover the cauldron in her heart or remove it from the heat. It roiled and bubbled and all the sloppy emotions she had so carefully tucked away began to trickle over the edge, threatening a spectacular eruption.

“I don’t have to do everything you tell me to do or agree with everything you say because you said it,” she spat, helpless to stop the venom rolling off her tongue.

2-D merely looked surprised, and then sad, and that hurt worst of all. She wanted him to cower, although she could not fathom why. She wanted him to grovel and whine and beg and cry.

She continued to rant as she stood to rinse her glass and it took every ounce of her attention to keep herself from smashing it in the sink. Every ounce, leaving nothing to control the words coming out of her mouth.

“I grew up in the band. You raised me. All of you. But that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of doll shaped by you. I’ve done plenty on my own! I’ve learned a lot! I’m not a thing that’s been made by you! I’m not a thing that was made to obey you! You can’t just program me and expect me to do what you want me to do! Say what you want me to say! Be what you want me to be!”

“I know, pun’kin,” 2-D said gently, reaching out cautiously to touch her arm, but she batted him way.

“Do you know what it was like? Having knowledge forced into your brain? Being tested every day, in every possible way? And I was the best case! Mr. Kyuzo liked me. He got me out. He helped me! I don’t know if he helped anyone else. If he did, I never heard of it. I had to… I had to watch them go. One at a time, I had to watch them go. They went and they never came back! I tried to keep everyone calm. I sang to them. But they were crying and afraid and they disappeared one by one! And then it was my turn and everything was too cold and too bright and then Mr. Kyuzo was packing me in a box and telling me to be good and then he said… something and then I was at Kong with you and Murdoc and Russel and I was so happy! I was so happy until we started to fight and we split up and then I went back to Japan and remembered everything and understood everything and I was so angry! At what they tried to do to us! At what they tried to make of us! And how awful the world could be and I wanted to tell everyone how I felt and I tried and I tried and I tried, but everything was so different, every _one_ was so different… but not. Everyone was so _human_ and _messy_ and _scared_ and I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know how to make it better when I wanted someone to make _me_ feel better! I was going to go away for a bit, just a little while, just long enough to put myself together enough to be _good_ enough to help. But I didn’t want to be followed and I told Murdoc because Murdoc is so good at making _arrangements_ and he suggested the video and talked about how it would help me escape, but it was something for _him_ really. I went along because I thought it really could help me too, but I knew it was really something for _him_ , and then it all went wrong and the helicopters were wrong and the timing was wrong and I… and I… I don’t know what happened. Nothing went right and I didn’t land where I was supposed to and I remember getting hurt and I think I was unconscious for a while. Maybe I was in a coma? I don’t know! I just ended up in a clinic and I thought someone would come for me, but no one ever came. No one at all! I tried calling and none of the lines were in service. It took _forever_ to be well enough to come back to Kong. Forever! And then there was nothing but smoking ruins and that bloody pit! And every day they’d come for me. I made a little fort in one of the old recording rooms and set up a broadcast station, but day after day the monsters came and came and came, but no one else. Never anyone else. And then I heard him on the radio! I heard him! Making broadcasts! And I heard him say… I heard him say… but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to. And then I heard you and I had to find you. Both of you. And I crossed the country and I crossed the ocean and I found it. I found Point Nemo, all covered in pink plastic. And when I got there… when I got there…”

She was pacing now, she realized, not knowing how she had started or when she intended to stop. She marched up and down the kitchen, gesturing as though doing so would better frame her thoughts, fingers flexing in rage, bordering on panic, as it all came back to her in a rush. The laboratories, the medical bays, the sure knowledge that she and the other children were weapons no one wanted. That they were being decommissioned. The dawning realization of what that truly meant. It filled her with fear. It filled her with guilt. She was the only one left, as far as she knew. The only survivor, saved by the sheer luck of forming a bond with the head of the project.

It all came back to her: the disillusionment, the desperate desire to recapture the innocence of her youth, the frightening realization that the adults in her life were as lost as she was, imperfect as she was. That she was imperfect, although she had always been told she was special, that she was chosen. The loss. The betrayal. The loneliness. The fear.

The realization that her perceived death meant nothing but the chance to recreate her as she should have been: the perfect little war machine.

“Noodle…”

She shook off 2-D’s attempts to pull her to him. Growled at him in her rage and pain, no matter how much she wanted to give in. She already regretted the things she had said. She was an adult! She could deal with her issues herself! Particularly those that did not pertain to the band. She had said too much, but she could still reel it back. She could still scoop it all back into its box. If she gave in…

“Pun’kin…”

“You didn’t stop him!” she shouted, shoving 2-D away so hard he stumbled back and hit the refrigerator. “You saw what he did to me and you didn’t stop him! He set me up, he almost killed me, he left me for dead, and he made me a machine that plays guitar, has guns, and never disobeys! I tried so hard! I tried so hard to… to _never_ …”

“I’m sorry, pun’kin…”

She did not know when she had begun to cry. It seemed such a childish thing to do, but the tears came in a flood, coursing over her cheeks as her breath caught in her chest.

This time, when 2-D drew her in, she did not stop him.

“I never… I never wanted to be a weapon,” she sobbed, her arms locking around his neck of their own accord. “I never wanted to… but it’s all anyone wants of me.”

“Not me, luv,” 2-D murmured near her ear. “Not me, not Russel, and not Murdoc, not really. Here now…”

She felt 2-D try and pull her up, the way he used to gather her in his arms when she was just a child, and she protested vehemently, afraid he would hurt himself, even she instinctively tried to climb him and wrap her legs around his waist. With more strength than she would have imagined, he bucked her up on the counter top where she could cling to him without fear of causing him strain and cry into his shoulder, an ocean of tears for every year of fear, pain, and betrayal carried deep.

2-D said nothing as she bawled, clinging to his shirt, bunching it into fists whose knuckles she bit in her anguish. He merely rubbed her back and stroked her hair until her sobs turned to sniffles, leaving burnings eyes and a thick, scratchy throat in their wake.

“Better?”

She wanted to say yes, thank you, much better, and save herself some dignity, but she only felt raw and empty, her mind blurred with the remnants of pain and rage.

2-D seemed to understand all the same. He always seemed to understand. He comforted and coaxed her until she reluctantly released him, grabbed a fresh towel from a drawer and wet it, wiping her eyes, her face, and her hands where her teeth had broken the skin. The he tossed the towel aside, turned around, and threaded his arms behind her thighs, signalling that she should catch him around the neck.

“You… You can’t do this,” she sniffled, even as he hitched her up on his back. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I got somethin’ for that, luv,” he told her, “but you might have to pay her in guitar lessons.”

She laughed a little at that, interspersed with dying sobs.

“Where are we going?” she said as 2-D piggybacked her into her room and let her slide off onto the bed.

“Pyjamas,” he told her, grabbing a pair she had left by her pillow and holding them up for approval. When she nodded tentatively, but did nothing more, he prompted, “You wanna change? Or you want some help?”

“I can do it,” she said, taking the pyjamas from him, her voice reduced to a childish lilt. He turned away from her then to give her space, but did not leave the room. “Why? Why all this?”

“‘Cause we’re gonna watch horror films,” 2-D said and she felt her blood pressure rise at the banality of it, but then he continued, “I know it dun sound like much, but silly fun dun hurt at all. ’Specially when you’re waitin’ on a ‘sorry’ that won’t come.”

She bit her lip as she finished pulling on her pyjamas, comfortably oversized, and sat back on her bed. She tucked her legs up beneath her chin, tears threatening to well up again.

“Maybe your Mr. Kyuzo was sorry for what he did and tried to help you, but you won’t hear sorry from anyone else that done those things to you. An’ i’s not your fault Mr. Kyuzo liked you enough to help you, but maybe no one else. A’s just luck. I’s not your fault they tried to make you a weapon either. I’s not something _in_ you that makes people think you ought to be one, I mean. A’s not why Murdoc… did what he did. I think he wanted you back, is all, but couldn’t have you, no matter how hard he tried, so he made somethin’ else instead. Something that _wan’t_ you, so it wouldn’t be so hard to look at it. He just din’t think of how hurtful it was, ‘cause Murdoc dun think of other people at all.”

Sensing no more movement behind him, 2-D glanced over his shoulder to see that she had finished changing and crouched back down, indicating she should climb back on his back. She did so as much out of curiosity as a need for comfort, squeezing him when he reached up to ruffle her hair before hitching her up onto his back. She knew he would feel it tomorrow, but that was tomorrow and this was today and today he was insistent.

“That dun make it right,” 2-D said as he trundled her back downstairs. “Tryna make a new you wan’t right at all, but i’s done and dusted. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry it hurt you. I’m sorry I wan’t always the best grown up to take care’a you. That maybe I wan’t always much of a grown up at all. But I dun think my bein’ sorry is what you want. I think I could say it all night and Russel tomorrow night, if he thinks he ought to, but it wouldn’t matter. You can’t get the sorry you want. Mr Kyuzo’s gone an’ the people in the lab are gone, and Murdoc… Murdoc dun say sorry.”

He deposited her into a chair and put a blanket over her, squatting down before her to offer a sad and gentle smile. For a moment she felt ten years old again, loved and protected.

“Murdoc’s _never_ said sorry,” 2-D said apologetically and he, she thought, should know. “He might for you. You’re diff’rent than me. But… I dun think he will. I’s not bad to hope, but i’s better not to hope too much. Still… thank you. For telling me. I never know what to do when it looks like you’re hurtin’. You never seem to want anyone to do _anything_. But today, I think, we should watch horror films, you an’ me. We can be sad that people dun say sorry an’ we can be happy you’re an auntie.” He grinned almost malevolently. “An’ we can pretend all the people bein’ eaten are people we dun like.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” she told him, the warring emotions inside her levelling out. She felt calmer. Not _good_ precisely, but quieter and more even. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood to like them though.”

2-D grinned.

“You dun have to like ‘em,” he said. “They’ll be bad ones. Maybe a good one, but mostly really good bad ones. I got one: awful pacin’ an’ jumpy POV, but they make zombies by wishing on a dead man’s dick.”

She quirked her eyebrow at him in horrified fascination.

“What? Like Aladdin?” she said, making a rubbing motion over her crotch for emphasis.

When 2-D confirmed her guess by continuing to grin, she reached out and grabbed his shirt.

“Toochi,” she said. “We have to watch this for the good of the universe.”

2-D did all the work and she let him. He pulled out the sofa and found pillows and blankets. He even lifted her out of the chair and swung her around princess-style to drop her unceremoniously on the bed big brother-style, startling a giggle out of her. He brought out the snacks, the wraps and fixings, and drinks in a large bowl full of ice so they would not have to get up more than necessary. He brought out the films, most of them on a single-compilation DVD, proof of both their age and quality, and they were every bit as terrible as advertised, filled with cringe-worthy fake gore, humourous attempts at terror, and the occasional blessed moment of real suspense.

Huddled against 2-D, wrapped in blankets, her hair stroked at intervals, she felt a child again. She supposed she should be insulted or offended, but so many of her happy memories had been obliterated by her discovery of her past and the things that came after that she allowed it. She was not as open and innocent as she used to be, but if the comfort and security that had surrounded her could be recaptured, if only for one night, then she did not think she was remiss in accepting it. For so long, she had prided herself on being the best thing for 2-D – the one that could cheer him, comfort him, and soothe all of his aches – that she had never considered how good he was for her, how good they were for each other in the face of shared trials and insults. She did not think he would share her secrets, and now she had someone with which she could share them without steadying them to soothe Russel’s paranoia or swallowing them to avoid Murdoc ignoring them. Childish fears were not for adults. They were the province of the siblings who shared and understood them.

Also the province of siblings…

“Toochi, are you wiping your fingers in my hair?” she said as he rolled a lock around in his hand.

“Maybe,” he said, his tone neither affirming nor denying.

“I hate you. Put another movie on.”

She could almost feel 2-D grin as he skipped the credits to serve up the next terrible film and decided she would let him live, at least for the night. Comfort was hard to come by, and there was always tomorrow.


	17. Epilogue

She stumbled downstairs half-awake and rummaged through the refrigerator for juice, only half-aware of the conversation going on around her.

“For the last time, Russel, turn that shite off.”

“No, I’m listening to this.”

“I don’t need the Beebs wailing at me at this time of day.”

“It’s past noon, dipshit.”

“Dents, tell this wanker to turn off the radio.”

“I quite like it. I’s the great minds of our future.”

“Well, you’re not one of them, that’s for certain.”

She yawned and, her immediate thirst assuaged, popped a piece of bread in the toaster and poured herself a cup of coffee. Only then did she bother to tune in to the subject of the argument.

“—talk radio of all bloody things,” Murdoc complained over the sound of the announcer.

Russel retaliated by increasing the volume.

“…Science Fair,” the announcer said. “We’re here with one of our finalists, Allison Chandler.”

She froze with the cup half-way to her lips.

“Allison, why don’t you tell us a little bit about your project?”

“Well… um… well…” began the voice drifting out of the radio.

“I can hear our future’s in good hands,” Murdoc snorted. “Might as well let 2-D handle it if that’s what you’re after.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Russel said. “She’s just a kid. It’s nerve wracking to be on the radio.”

“It’s about acoustic levitation, see?” Allison said. Taking an audible breath, she launched into her spiel about using sine waves to float light objects and the kind of purposes to which they could be put.

“That’s a very ambitious project,” the announcer said. “How did you come up with your machine?”

“Oh, you can get instructions online,” Allison told him. “It’s not hard to build if you’ve got the right parts. Most of them have a steady frequency though. I wanted a sliding wave so people could see the changes at different frequencies.”

Facing the wall so the others could not see, she allowed herself a smile as she took a sip of coffee.

“Your report says you built your equipment yourself, did you have any help with it?”

“Oh… yeah! My dad helped me!”

“Did you want to say hello to him on the radio?”

“No… He said not to. He doesn’t like the spotlight.”

She snorted her drink so hard that coffee hit the wall in front of her.

“Dun choke an’ die, pun’kin,” 2-D said calmly as she coughed. “I’s bad for your health.”

“You’ll want to wipe that up, too, love,” Murdoc said. “I’m not doing it.”

“You all right there?” Russel said.

“Fine,” she wheezed, finally catching her breath. “Just… had to sneeze while I was trying to drink. Bad idea.”

The toaster ejected her breakfast and it flopped over onto the counter top.

“There’s eggs, too, if you like,” 2-D said. “Hard boiled. I put ‘em inna fridge, but they might not be cold yet.”

“Well, thank you for telling us a little bit about your project, Allison. Good luck with the final round.”

Allison thanked the announcer and the broadcast changed to general coverage.

“ _Now_ can we turn the bloody thing off?”

“Muds, I’m going to rip off your arm and beat you with it,” Russel threatened.

“I thought I might go into town,” 2-D said, sipping from a mug and scrolling through his phone. “There’s a record shop down near the event centre. I haven’t been in a while and they might have new stock in. You wanna come, Noodle?”

“Um… sure. Okay,” she said. “Can I finish my toast?”

“Yeah, you got time for that,” 2-D told her. “I’m gonna change. Leave in an hour?”

“Fine. Hour’s fine,” she said, burying any further comment in a second attempt at drinking her coffee.

“Russ, for the love of Satan…”

“It’s staying on. Suck it up.”

As she settled herself in to the typical mid-day fight and a breakfast of sliced egg on toast, the announcer returned to interview the next finalist. She did not pay him much attention.

She would see the projects herself soon enough.


End file.
